


Eight Days A Week

by cassyl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Office, Case Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-16
Updated: 2012-09-09
Packaged: 2017-11-13 21:01:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 24,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/507684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassyl/pseuds/cassyl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a handsome consultant shows up at the office, John thinks his biggest worry is being made redundant.  Little does he know, things are about to get a lot more complicated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is inspired by _The Office_ but is not a cross-over or fusion. In short, AU case fic set in an office environment. Title from the Beatles, obviously.

Tuesdays, John finds, are the bleakest day of the week. Everybody’s always going on about Hump Day, and it’s Monday they write pop songs about, but for John, Tuesday is the day to be reckoned with – it’s early enough in the week that the memory of the previous weekend hasn’t faded yet, but far enough from Friday that the end’s not yet in sight. No, Tuesday is definitely the barren wasteland of the workweek, the day he inevitably considers chucking it all and joining the Army or something. At least if he were getting shot at, he wouldn’t be so bored.

It’s a Tuesday when the consultant shows up. Molly greets him at reception, but all her sunshine is thwarted by one of the curtest greetings John’s ever witnessed, and after that she shows him directly, meekly, into Bill’s office. The rumor is that he’s from the London office – or that he’s been sent _by_ the London office, it’s not clear – and that he’s not so much a consultant as one of those blokes who specializes in sacking people. The rumor is there are going to be redundancies, which only confirms John’s theory that nothing good ever happens on a Tuesday.

Although, honestly, John’s not bothered. If he’s made redundant, what’s the worst that’ll happen? He’s thought about leaving plenty of times. He’s got enough money saved up that he can coast for a while, and then, who knows, maybe he’ll get off his arse and make something of himself. Or, more realistically, he’ll find another job that’s almost exactly like what he’s already doing now, only slightly different in the particulars.

After nearly an hour, Bill and the consultant emerge from the manager’s office. “All right, everybody, can I have your attention for a moment?” Bill calls even though it’s already quiet enough to hear a pin drop. There’s a pause while everyone puts aside their work and gathers round so they can see better.

“I’m sure you’re all wondering by now who we’ve got with us today. Well, I’d like you all to meet Sherlock Holmes.” Bill claps a hand on the consultant’s shoulder, and the man flinches, although he tries to cover it with a tight smile. John’d almost feel sorry for him, if he weren’t here to gut all their jobs. “Mr. Holmes is an independent consultant, and he’s been asked by Head Office to come in and take a look under our bonnet, so to speak. He’ll be with us for the next few weeks, doing a thorough review of our entire operation. He’ll need to interview each of us at some point – don't worry, nothing you wouldn’t mind telling your gran.”

There’s a little polite laughter.

“Mr. Holmes is here to let Head Office know how we’re doing here, so let’s all please do our best to make sure he has everything he needs, and that he feels welcome while he’s here with us. All right?”

A scattered murmur of assent washes across the room.

“Anything you’d like to add, Mr. Holmes?”

For a moment, Holmes is silent, surveying the crowd intently. He looks, John thinks, rather like a hawk searching for its supper. He’s a good-looking man, tall and very thin, with dark hair and almost white lips, and very well turned out, too. His suit alone – black, with a dark purple shirt, no tie – probably costs more than John’s entire wardrobe, and he wears it well, John has to admit. But for all his city boy good looks, he does seem uncomfortable up there – or, not uncomfortable, exactly, so much as just plain stiff. That twitched-up smile is stiff, his shoulders are stiff; he’s tense all over, holding himself apart. John supposes he has to, can’t afford to be familiar when he’s the one to decide who gets the chop. Then again, the way he’s eyeing the room, he looks like he might actually enjoy sacking someone.

“Not at this time,” Holmes says, finally.

“OK, well . . . Anyone have any questions?”

Brenda sticks up one hesitant index finger, the way she always does in meetings and she’s shy to talk in front of the heads of department, but before Bill can spot her, Holmes is talking.

“This isn’t about cutbacks,” he tells her briskly. When Brenda just stares at him, he frowns. “That is what you were wondering, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but how did you . . . ?”

“Obvious, really. It’s most people’s first thought when an independent consultant comes into their place of employment. And it’s evident you’re worried you’ll be sacked first – which, considering your age, is likely, as those closer to retirement are statistically more likely to be let go. Judging by your clothes – decent but a bit old and clearly not ironed – and your hair – hardly brushed – your interest in your job is flagging, but you’re hoping to coast through the last few years of your career until you can leave here with a more generous pension.”

Brenda just blinks at him, color rising to her cheeks, and touches her hair self-consciously. It does look rather like she hasn’t brushed it.

“You needn’t worry,” Holmes continues. “Your Head Office isn’t interested in cutting back staff. I can’t guarantee that a few people won’t be let go, but most of you have nothing to worry about.” He looks around. “Any other questions, or am I free to get to work?”

“Right,” Bill says slowly. “You’ll be in the conference room, which is just through here.”

Well, John thinks, as the lanky consultant disappears into the conference room, if nothing else, this definitely won’t be boring.


	2. Chapter 2

Interviews start the next day, and John fully expects to go last – as a W, he’s used to being at the end of the queue, always was in school, except the one year Jennifer Yim joined his class, and he’d loved her, a bit, just for the light, quick lilt of her surname with its initial Y. But against all expectation, when Holmes opens the conference room door and calls out the first name, it’s “Watson, John.” Apparently the man’s a fan of reverse alphabetizing.

By the time John gets up from his desk and into the conference room, Holmes is already seated again, a manila folder open in front of him. He’s looking at it with keen attention, and gestures vaguely for John to sit down and close the door.

“Your name?”

“Ah . . . Don’t you know that already?” John asks. The man had just call him in by name, not a minute ago.

The man’s sharp gaze flicks up to him for a second, then slides away. “I prefer to do my own fact-finding.”

“Right. OK. Ah, my name’s John Watson.”

“And how long have you been an employee here?”

John has to think about it. “Five years? Oh, no, it’s six, actually – just six this January. God.” He half laughs. “Six years.”

“Your position?”

“Senior sales rep.”

“How do you find your work?”

It strikes John as odd that Holmes is asking these questions without so much as looking at him. Presumably, this information’s already in the file, so he must be trying to glean something about John himself, but how he can do that without looking is beyond John’s comprehension. He answers anyway.

“It’s fine,” he says. “The work’s fine, and I get on well with most of the other staff.” A silence stretches out after he stops talking, and the longer it goes on, the more aware John becomes that Holmes isn’t paying attention to him. Feeling an acute need to fill the void, he keeps talking, digging himself deeper. “I mean, it’s not, you know, exactly what I thought I’d wind up doing, but, then, who ever really does end up doing what they thought they would when they were eighteen, nineteen, anyway?”

Finally Holmes deigns to look at him, his expression incisive and unnervingly direct. “What did you think you were going to do?”

“I dunno,” John says, too surprised by the blunt question to formulate an answer. Surely this isn’t part of the evaluation. “Er, I mean . . . I was pre-med at uni, but that was—” He rubs nervously at his shoulder. “It didn’t work out.”

“No?” Holmes’ eyes are on John’s hand now, appraising – though appraising what, he’s not sure.

“No. It just— It wasn’t ever going to happen. Realistically.” He pulls himself up short, suddenly angry with himself for sharing these details with a stranger, and angry at Holmes for drawing them out of him. “Sorry, is this relevant?”

Holmes’ face is carefully blank. “It might be.”

John forces his tensing jaw to relax. “Well, I’d prefer we stick to questions that are actually related to my job, if you don’t mind.”

Holmes lets his eyes ride slowly over John’s face, and it feels almost like he’s doing it just to prove he can. He says, “Do you know what I’m doing here? Are you privy to that information? No? Then how can you be sure that it won’t be _relevant_ to my investigation to know that you make a decent wage at this job but that you’re living cheaply and putting most of your money into savings? Or that you’ve some post-secondary education but you dropped out after some sort of traumatic event – most likely the death of your father? Or, for that matter, that you’re crippled by doubt and self-recrimination?”

John’s jaw works numbly. Some of what Holmes has just said is in his file, but the stuff about his savings, about his family . . . “How can you possibly know that?”

“You’ve seen my methods. I noticed.”

John flashes back to the dressing down Holmes had given poor, meek, elderly Brenda yesterday morning. It’d been almost unbearable to watch, not least of all because everyone in the room had known that he was exactly right. “You _noticed_ all that about me? How?”

“Simple,” Holmes says, casual to the point of being dismissive. “As far as your finances go, you know as well as I do that your salary is in your file. But you don’t present yourself like a man who makes that much a year. Your clothes are neat and well-cared for but they’re not top-of-the-line brands, which you could reasonably afford, nor is your haircut equal to your position here – it’s obviously done at home with clippers. So: frugal, but not because you’ve any need to be. Cost of living in this area is relatively low, and you’re clearly single and living on your own, so you’ve no exorbitant expenses. Conclusion: you’ve got money, but you’re not spending it on anything, just putting it away. As for university, you already admitted as much.”

“I didn’t say anything about why I left.”

“No, your watch told me that.”

“My watch?” John asks, looking in surprise to his wrist.

Holmes huffs out a short breath. “Obviously. It’s clearly an antique, and not just old, but well-cared for, too, in excellent condition. You don't seem the type to buy a vintage watch for the sake of style alone – your dress sense is cursory at best, as evidenced by that tie you’re wearing – but here you are with what is, it must be said, a very handsome watch. Nor is it the flashy sort of gadget most men your age would buy for themselves. Something inherited from a relative, then, sentimental value.” Holmes makes a little despairing face, as if sentiment is the basest form of emotion he can imagine. “Based on the piece’s age, I’d say it belonged to your father, not a grandfather, and if your father were still alive, wouldn’t he still be wearing his own watch? So he’s dead, then, and since you’re wearing his watch, it seems fair to assume your grief over his death is still fresh. But not fresh enough that you’re unused to wearing the watch you inherited. Your tan line and the lack of the hair on your wrist suggest you’ve been wearing this watch for some time, at least several years. Still wearing a keepsake of your dead father’s after all this time? Probably something about his death was traumatic, and the projected timeline fits right in with the end of your stint at university. Hence, father’s traumatic death caused you to drop out of school.

“And as for the last bit,” Holmes says, drawing another deep breath to brace himself for this final revelation, “I imagine you already know, but I’ll go ahead tell you anyway, shall I? The way you hold yourself is highly instructive – shoulders slouched, protective and self-deprecating at once, shielding yourself from attack while at the same time making yourself seem smaller and less important. Which is hardly necessary, considering that you’re an acceptably successful and reasonably attractive man in the prime of his life. But yet here you are, in a job well below your qualifications – if you were pre-med, clearly you’re no slouch, a fact that’s corroborated by the letters of recommendation in your file – living in the middle of nowhere, saving money for no discernable purpose and wallowing in the death of your father. I should think even you’re aware you have low self-confidence.”

John knows he should be angry, that this absolute stranger has picked him apart and laid him bare, but all he can feel is astonishment. There aren’t many people, not even some of his oldest friends, who know that much about him. “That . . . was amazing.”

Surprise flicks over Holmes’ face. “Do you think so?”

“Of course it was. That was extraordinary—it was quite extraordinary.”

“That’s not what people normally say.”

“What do they normally say?”

A slow smile works its way across Holmes’ lips. “Piss off.”

John can only laugh.

And as if John’s passed some kind of test, when Holmes resumes the interview, he mercifully sticks to fairly standard questions about John’s work responsibilities – what does he do of an average day, what are his typical sales figures? A few of the questions, though, are a bit more general – inquiries about the company’s corporate and financial structure, stuff John’s got absolutely no idea how to answer. He tries to muddle through without embarrassing himself too much, and then finally Holmes gives him a terse smile and says, “One last question, then. Where do you see yourself in five years’ time?”

A cold feeling forms in the pit of John’s stomach. “Sorry, what?”

Holmes huffs, apparently annoyed at having to repeat himself. “What do you see happening in five years’ time?”

He hates this bloody question. He can never think of an answer. And this isn’t one of those cases where knowing he’s got low self-esteem makes the slightest bit of difference. It doesn’t matter what he knows, or what he tries to tell himself: there’s just this, the same thing over and over again. John can’t see anything else. That’s hardly the sort of answer you want to give in an interview, but Holmes is looking at him expectantly, clearly getting impatient, and so John says the only true thing that comes to his mind. “Nothing happens to me.”


	3. Chapter 3

The rest of John’s Wednesday morning goes more or less like every other Wednesday morning has gone for the past six years. Holmes hardly leaves the conference room, only appearing to call the next person in for their interview, and by the time lunch rolls around John has almost forgotten about him.

When Bill calls John into his office, he doesn’t think much of it. Bill Murray – “no jokes about the name, now” might as well be his middle name – is a good boss, and a good man, better than this office deserves, really. Bill’s the one who gave John this job, and as much as he complains sometimes, he’ll always be indebted to Bill for that. The two of them go out for a pint sometimes after work, and Bill is probably the closest thing John has to a friend at the office.

“All right?” Bill asks, sitting back down.

John takes up his usual seat in front of Bill’s desk. “Yeah, fine, thanks. How’s the, ah—” He gestures to the pile of quarterly reports on the desk.

“Not bad,” Bill says. “Listen, the reason I called you in here is that I was hoping you wouldn’t mind giving the consultant a tour of the building. He wants to get the lay of the land and, you know, see the warehouse and everything.”

“Wouldn’t you rather George or Karen did it? Or, I dunno, Michaelson? He’s always keen to do that sort of stuff.” If by ‘stuff’ John means sucking up to management to make himself seem important. God, what a prat. There’s one in every office, though, and Michaelson just happens to be theirs.

“He asked for you.”

“Wh— Why?” 

Bill shrugs, hands spread as if to say, ‘What can I do?’ “Didn’t say, just asked if I’d get you to show him around.”

He thinks of the man’s challenging gaze, those eyes neither quite blue or grey, and he can feel his shoulders getting tense. “Erm . . . Yeah, sure, I suppose. Why not?”

Bill seems to sense John’s discomfort. “You’re not busy, are you?”

“Well, I did have plans, but my double date with that cheese sandwich and those outstanding invoices will just have to wait.”

“Cheers, mate,” his boss says, and if John isn’t mistaken, he looks distinctly relieved.

John stands to go, but something about Bill’s nervousness stops him before he gets to the door. “Look, I know it’s not my place to ask, but what’s this all about, anyway? Are there really going to be redundancies?”

“Honestly?” Bill sighs and scrubs a hand through his hair. “I’ve got no idea. Head Office just called me out of the blue on Monday and told me he was coming, and that I was to give him full cooperation. They didn’t say ‘or else,’ but they didn’t have to.”

“Christ.”

“Just – don’t go spreading it around, all right? I know you wouldn’t, but I don’t want them worrying about it out there. It’s probably nothing.”

“Sure,” John agrees, although privately he has the feeling that Sherlock Holmes isn’t the sort you call in over nothing.

“And John?”

John turns around a second time. 

“I know he seems like a bit of a prat, but I’m told he’s the best in his field, and . . . Well, they wouldn’t have sent him if it weren’t important, so try and put up with him, would you?”

John nods, tries a smile, if only to set Bill at ease. “Of course.” He’s got plenty of experience putting up with arseholes. After all, he’s in sales.

John takes his leave of Bill and walks the ten steps over to the conference room. It feels surprisingly like a march to the gallows, although John’s not quite sure why he’s so nervous.

He taps on the door to the conference room and, at the terse, “Come,” pushes the door open and steps inside. Holmes is sitting at the far side of the table, engrossed in another file. There’s an awful lot of paper spread out, John realizes – it looks like an entire filing cabinet’s been dumped out on the surface of the table – and if there’s an order to the clutter, John can’t discern it. Huge stacks of files spill out onto other heaps of papers, and dozens of binders, full to bursting, are piled precariously on the floor. Several more cardboard boxes, each full to the brim, are lined up against the back wall of the room. It looks like this is much more than just some review. In fact, if John had to guess, he’d say they were undergoing a complete audit.

“You wanted to see me, Mr. Holmes?”

“‘Sherlock’ is sufficient,” he says, without looking up.

There’s a long pause while Holmes—while Sherlock finishes whatever it is he’s reading. Then he looks up, like no time has passed, and says, “Where do you propose we start?”

They start upstairs, and John walks him through the office, introducing him to the different departments – accounts, logistics, human resources. “Almost everyone’s out to lunch at the moment,” he says apologetically, “or else I’d introduce you around.”

“Not necessary,” Sherlock replies. He slides open the drawer of someone’s desk as they go past, lets out a low hum of interest, but doesn’t stop to investigate further.

They take the lift down to the first floor, where the tour is much the same. John explains who sits where and what everyone does, pointing to empty chairs, while Sherlock snoops in people’s desks, rifling through their inboxes and paging through their diaries. John’s never seen someone with so little regard for boundaries, and he’s tempted to call him out on it, except that Bill made it clear they’re supposed to give him free reign. John’s not sure if “free reign” extends to smelling the lining of Donna M’s purse, but he doesn’t much fancy risking his job to find out.

Last of all, John takes Sherlock down to the warehouse, where all the stock is stored. A couple of the delivery drivers are sitting on the loading dock, eating their lunch and listening to the wireless, and John introduces Sherlock around. They eye him suspiciously, and he does the same in return.

“I don’t know what you want to see down here, really,” John says, gesturing to the tall aisles. “That’s the stock, they’ve got a forklift, the lorry’s parked outside.”

“All the same, I’d like to look around.”

John shrugs, follows him as he strides briskly into the warehouse. He scans the shelves, checking labels on boxes occasionally, tracing the seams of plastic wrap with his long fingers. As they wander deeper into the warehouse, John is distantly aware of the sound of the rest of the crew returning from their lunch break. Somewhere in the building an engine starts up – the forklift, no doubt. John watches Sherlock, wondering what it is he’s looking for. He’s not just browsing – he’s definitely doing a targeted inspection, but John can’t even begin to guess for what.

“Is this how you normally do this?” he asks.

“Normally?” Sherlock repeats, shooting a derisive glance at John over his shoulder. “No. There is no ‘normally.’”

“You mean you don’t usually do this kind of work?”

Sherlock blows out an irritated breath. “I mean every investigation has to be taken on a case-by-case basis. Do you assume that your next client will be exactly the same as your last one?”

“Well, no, but—”

“No,” Sherlock says flatly. “Every situation is unique, with its own needs, and ought to be judged on its own merit. Routine, complacency, that’s the killer. The minute you fall into the trap of thinking you know what to expect, that’s when you know you’re in trouble.”

He has a point, John will admit, but that doesn’t stop him feeling sorry he asked. Sherlock’s got a temper like a whip, lashing out with an almost terrible speed and cutting deep. He’s just grazed John this time, barely a touch, and John hates to think of what it would feel like to catch the whole force of that sharp wit. 

It doesn’t escape his notice, either, that, by Sherlock’s definition, John’s been ‘in trouble’ for years. He could predict what will happen tomorrow, right down to the minute. And Sherlock’s probably not wrong that it’ll be the death of him in the end.

He wonders what Sherlock’s life is like. Just now, the man’s climbed halfway up one of the shelves in order to look at the serial numbers on some stock up there, looking just as oddly unselfconscious hanging off the shelving as he does behind a desk. He isn’t even fazed when the shelves sway under his weight, although it gives John quite a turn. It’s not so much that Sherlock is unaware of what people think – his tense attempt at pleasantries yesterday made much that clear – but more like he just doesn’t give a toss. It must be nice, John thinks, just picking up every few weeks and setting down in a new town, a new office, taking apart its workings piece by piece and never worrying about tidying up after himself.

Sherlock leaps down from the shelf and is about to whisk into the next aisle when John becomes aware of a humming noise in the air. It takes him a second to work out what the sound is and grab the back of Sherlock’s jacket to pull him out of the way of the forklift coming around the corner.

They stumble back, and their feet tangle as Sherlock tries to twist out of his grip, so that the next thing he knows, they’re on the floor, John landing hard on his bad shoulder, Sherlock on top of him, looking down with a slightly stunned expression. His eyes, John thinks, look like polished glass.

“Ah . . .” John says, suddenly very aware that an extremely handsome man is lying right on top of him.

The sound of John’s voice seems to snap Sherlock back to himself, and he stands gracefully – it almost makes John wonder how he could’ve been clumsy enough to fall in the first place – before extending a hand to help him up.

John has to take Sherlock’s hand with his right, because his left is burning with pins and needles, but he finally gets to his feet, though with much less style than the consultant.

“That was quick thinking,” Sherlock says, and it’s the first time John’s really heard him sound anything more than blandly disdainful. In fact, John might almost say he sounds approving.

“Oh, ah, no problem.” John rubs absently at his shoulder, the feeling returning grudgingly to his arm. “Don’t think Head Office would thank me if I let you get flattened on only your second day here.” He leans out into the aisle and shouts, “Oi, watch where you’re going!” 

Clyde, the driver, waves absently in the rear view mirror. 

“Christ,” John mutters. “The man’s a menace on that thing.”

“Hm,” Sherlock says, but his attention is on John’s on his shoulder. “Are you all right?”

John drops his hand, suddenly embarrassed. “Old injury. I’ll be fine.”

Sherlock nods and turns on his heel, walking briskly back the way they came.

“Are we done here?” When Sherlock just keeps walking, John shakes himself into motion. He has to jog to catch up.


	4. Chapter 4

When they get back up to the second floor, someone’s leaning over the reception desk, blocking the entrance as he chats to Molly. John can’t see his face, but he recognizes him from the glaringly yellow band of his underwear, exposed as he leans over the counter. “Hullo, Jim,” he says wearily.

It’s not that he’s got anything against Molly’s boyfriend, really. She’s very happy, and he seems nice enough, but there’s just something about him that rubs John the wrong way. Maybe it’s just the fact that John’s desk is closest to reception, so he always gets an earful of their whispered flirting when Jim comes up from the first floor to pass the time with her, although John would like to think he’s not quite so petty as to hold someone else’s romantic bliss against them. 

“Oh, hi, there, John,” Jim drawls, straightening up slowly and giving him an even slower smile. He looks Sherlock up and down. “Who’s your friend, then?”

“Sherlock Holmes,” John explains. “He’s the, ah, consultant.”

“That’s right. I heard London had sent someone to check up on us.” That languid smile spreads even wider for Sherlock. “Hi, I’m Jim,” he says, extending a hand.

“Jim’s in IT,” Molly supplies when Sherlock doesn’t take his hand. “Downstairs?”

“Yes.” Sherlock glances from Jim to Molly and then back, and John wonders what he’s seeing. “Excuse me.” And with that, he brushes past John and Jim and disappears back into the conference room.

“He’s not very friendly, is he?” Molly asks.

John can’t bring himself to disagree.

As he walks back to his desk, John wonders about the exchange between Jim and the consultant. If he didn’t know better, he’d have thought Jim was coming onto Sherlock, but John doesn’t really think so poorly of Jim that he’s willing to believe he’d do that in front of his own girlfriend. On the other hand, that would explain the creeping feeling John gets sometimes when Jim is around.

The rest of the afternoon passes more or less without incident, although John finds his thoughts drifting back to Sherlock rather more than is strictly necessary. John long ago came to terms with the fact that he occasionally fancies men – he gave up feeling tortured about it after he met Amir during his second year at university – but fantasizing about this particular man in the middle of the office – and while the man in question is only a few feet away, no less – doesn’t seem terribly wise.

Still, it’s been a long while since his last serious relationship, and he can hardly fault himself for being attracted to someone as dead sexy as Sherlock Holmes. It’s ridiculous, really, how good-looking the man is; John wasn’t even sure people that attractive existed in real life. All the same, it’s probably a bad idea to start lusting after the man who might very well fire him tomorrow, and so John does his best to put the thought out of his head and focus on his work.

When he gets home, John has two messages waiting for him on the machine. One’s from Harry, which he deletes immediately without listening to, and the other is from Mike Stamford.

Mike is just about the only person from university John’s kept in touch with. He’s a proper doctor now, having followed the course that John once thought he would take, and sometimes he looks at Mike’s life and feels his jealousy trying to kindle itself into a full burn, but he doesn’t hold that against Mike. Mike’s a good-natured sort, and he’s one of the only people who put up with John when he was at his lowest in the years following the accident. In fact, he’s one of the few people John still speaks with who knew him back then, and John hates him for that, too, in a way, for reminding him of how things used to be. But none of that is Mike’s fault, and it does John absolutely no good dwelling on any of it, so he turns on the telly.

There’s nothing on, though, so John weighs his options and decides to go with his other post-work relaxation technique.

John turns on the shower and shucks off his work clothes. After spending all day in the recycled air of the office, sometimes it feels good to get the film off his skin. And it never hurts that the sound of the shower helps muffle any noise he might make while masturbating, because having his elderly downstairs neighbor ask whether he stubbed his toe the night before was mortifying enough when it happened to him the first time, thanks very much.

In the shower, John lets the spray wash over him and sap the tension from his shoulders. When he’s thoroughly warm and relaxed, he takes himself in hand, stroking slowly to get himself started. Usually at this point, he’d start going back over his greatest hits – Amir, sometimes, or Sarah, the pretty GP he’d dated for two years and whom he sometimes still thinks about marrying. Tonight, though, he’s got someone else on his mind – namely, Sherlock Holmes.

The thought’s tempting – more than tempting. It’s probably not the best idea to be fantasizing about someone who may or may not hold John’s future in his hands, but John’s found that it’s usually better to get these little infatuations out of his system, rather than letting them fester, and, anyway, what’s the harm in just thinking about it?

If he were to think about Sherlock, he definitely wouldn’t think about him in the office. He wouldn’t imagine being called into the conference room just as he had been earlier today, nor would he imagine himself standing in the doorway, saying, “You wanted to see me, Mr. Holmes?”

His hand starts moving faster over his cock, fully hard now, and he bows his head under the spray, feeling the water roll down the back of his neck.

What would Sherlock do to him once the door was closed? Shove him up against it, perhaps, and sink to his knees? Oh, fuck, he bets that mouth is sweet, those full lips, that low, smooth voice. And what he couldn’t take into his mouth, those nimble fingers would address, coasting over John’s hips, tugging his balls, God, just like that.

But before John was too far gone, he’d pull Sherlock up and push him over to the conference table and spread him out on top of all that paper. And that paper would shift under Sherlock’s back when John finally pushed into him and it would feel so fucking good, Sherlock’s hips rising desperately to meet his thrusts, his cock straining to be touched, and John would touch him—touch him—

John has to brace himself against the wall when he comes, and he’s grateful the water’s running because the sound that drags its way out of him is so low and aching that is embarrasses even him.

For a long time, he just leans there, letting the water beat down on his back, until, at last, he’s breathing properly again. Afterwards, he shuts off the shower and dries off and gets into bed, where he falls asleep immediately and doesn’t dream about anything at all.


	5. Chapter 5

By Thursday afternoon, Sherlock is finished with staff interviews, and seems to have entered a second phase of his audit, or whatever it is, which involves a lot of pacing and talking to himself. John’s desk is right near the conference room and the low murmur of Sherlock’s monologue has been running through his head all day. He can’t hear much of what he’s saying, but that hasn’t stopped the sound of that deep voice from being distracting in the extreme.

By half seven, John and Bill are the last ones left in the office, save Sherlock, who’s still shut up in the conference room. Thursdays are his and Bill’s usual night out, and they usually stay a bit late so they won’t pick up any other company on their way to the pub. 

They started going out for drinks not too long after John was first hired, and, in many ways, John knows it was those early evenings of commiseration that finally let him pull himself together. 

It took him a long time to deal with the physical ramifications of the accident, just relearning how to use his limbs, getting back to his old strength, and the emotional damage lingered well after the physical therapy was over. He spent the next few years blowing through a series of shitty, dead-end jobs and equally disastrous relationships. It always happened the same way: he’d find something (or someone), telling himself anything would do, and things would go all right for a bit, but after a while – six months, three months, sometimes more, sometimes less – he would inevitably get the feeling that some invisible pressure was building up around him, bearing down on him, a suffocating weight, and he would snap. 

But Bill had seen something worth investing in, and over the course of John’s first year with the company, he’d managed to draw it out, slowly, bit by bit. John’s not happy now, exactly, but he’s found a center, some kind of still point inside himself that he didn’t even realize he’d lost. He’ll take dull and predictable over splintering apart any day. And although he knows he’ll never be able to explain it to Bill, John understands that, in some very real sense, Bill saved his life by hiring him. So now, John takes Bill out for a pint every Thursday, because it’s the closest he can come to saying thank you.

John finally shuts down his computer around quarter to seven and goes to collect Bill. As they head out, Bill points to the still-lighted conference room. Through the half-closed blinds, John can see Sherlock’s dark shape bent over the table.

“Should we invite him along?” Bill asks in a low voice.

John resists the urge to bite his lip. “He won’t say yes.” 

“Maybe not, but it’d be a nice gesture. He doesn’t know anyone in town. I’d kill myself if I had to go home alone to an empty hotel room every night.”

_Who says he goes home alone?_ some wicked part of John’s brain supplies, and he works hard to crush the thought of Sherlock picking someone up and bringing them back to his hotel room. “Go ahead and ask, then, if you’re so keen.”

Bill shrugs, as if to say, _Why not?_ and raps on the conference room door before sticking his head in.

“We’re off for the evening,” he says. “Sticking around a bit longer?”

“No, actually,” Sherlock says. “I’ll just get my coat.”

“Sure, of course.” He leans against the door, arms clasped together, while Sherlock puts his papers in order and grabs his coat off the rack in the corner. Then the room goes dark and then Sherlock is locking the door after himself, which John thinks is a bit excessive, as the building has a security system, but it’s none of his business.

They walk out of the office together and stand waiting for the lift.

“Listen,” Bill says when the doors open, “John and I are headed over to the King’s Arms. They do a little pub quiz on Thursdays – not a very erudite crowd, I’m afraid, but you’re welcome to come along if you like.”

John fully expects Sherlock to decline, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t say yes right away, either. Instead, his gaze is searching John’s face, considering, and John would give his left arm to know what’s going through his head right now.

“You should come,” John says, although he’s not sure why he says it. “It’s a laugh, and I guarantee you there’s absolutely nothing else going on tonight.”

“All right,” Sherlock says at last. There’s almost even a smile on his face, which sends a little shiver down John’s spine.

The lift lets them out on the ground floor and they walk through the car park to John’s car. This is the way it always goes – Bill leaves his car home on Thursdays and John drives, because John takes drink driving more seriously than most and doesn’t mind going a bit out of his way to take Bill home if it means they all wake up in one piece on Friday morning. Sherlock squeezes his long legs into the back seat and sits there awkwardly, watching John in the rear view mirror. It’s more than a little unnerving to find Sherlock looking at him every time he changes lanes, and he has to force down the voice in his head that suggests that maybe John is the reason he’s agreed to come out tonight.

It’s only about a five minute drive to the KA, and it’s not long before they’re settled in their usual booth in the back, John and Bill both with a pint and some chips between them, Sherlock with what looks like a gin and tonic sitting almost untouched in front of him.

The quiz starts up before they have much chance to make small talk. Neither John nor Bill is particularly brilliant at trivia, but there really isn’t much else to do in town and this sure beats sitting at home watching crap telly.

They play as a team of three and Sherlock proceeds to dominate every round except those on entertainment and popular culture, which he seems to have not even the most cursory knowledge of. But in almost everything else, the man is unbeatable.

And, all right, John really can’t help it. It’s bloody _hot_. John’s always had a soft spot for someone with a good head on their shoulders, but Sherlock is ridiculous. There doesn’t seem to be anything he doesn’t know.

“Which bird is referred to collectively as an unkindness?” 

“Ravens,” Sherlock answers without hesitating. Bill puts it down.

“Which letter is represented in Morse Code by three dots?”

“S.”

“What is the chemical symbol for the element mercury?”

“Oh, uh . . . “ John struggles to remember, while Bill chides him, “Come on, college boy!”

“Hg,” Sherlock supplies, and John swears, because of course it is.

“Who is the Greek god of medicine?”

“Asclepius,” John says, a half second before Sherlock can get it out, and the man almost looks impressed. John tries not to let himself smile too broadly.

“How long does it take Jupiter to orbit the sun?”

Sherlock just frowns, like he’s missed some joke, and John and Bill look at one another.

“Fuck if I know,” Bill says. “Eleven years.”

“What!” John exclaims.

“Oh, like you’ve got a better guess.”

John rolls his eyes. “Fine, write it down.”

With Sherlock on their team, they win by a landslide, and John and Bill decide unanimously that Sherlock is taking home they prize they collect: an oversized plywood cutout of the Guinness toucan balancing a pint on its beak, almost as tall as John and resplendent in its ugliness.

“Why would I want that?” Sherlock asks, looking at it like it’s going to bite him.

“Call it a souvenir of your time here,” John says, laughing, almost as much at Sherlock’s expression of horror as in delight at winning.

“Oh, hell,” Bill says, looking at his watch. “Is that the time? I’ve got to get home or I’ll never hear the end of it.”

“Come on,” John says to Sherlock, picking up one end of the giant toucan, “I’ll help you carry this out to the car.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of our locals when I was living in England was the King's Arms, so, uh, shout out to the KA! It's been a long time since I've been to a pub quiz, so sorry if I've fudged the details a bit. Some of the quiz questions were filched from the [Telegraph Pub Quiz](http://www.telegraph.co.uk/foodanddrink/pubs/6555074/Telegraph-Pub-Quiz-questions-and-answers.html). For the record, Bill is not far off when he guesses that Jupiter's orbit is 11 years. It's 11.8 years. And, lastly, there is a giant toucan. I'm sorry.


	6. Chapter 6

John waits until Bill’s inside and the front hall light comes on before he turns to Sherlock, now in the passenger’s seat, and says, “Where are you staying?” He swallows against the dryness in his throat and cuts his eyes away, focusing pointedly on the non-existent traffic as he pulls back onto the road. 

“The Holiday Inn Express,” Sherlock says, and John has the strangest feeling that Sherlock knows exactly what he’s thinking.

They pass the ride in uneasy silence – well, John’s uneasy, anyway. He tries to make conversation, but Sherlock seems perfectly content to lean on the window and watch the darkened streets pass them by.

When they reach the hotel, John offers to help John carry the giant wooden toucan they won up to his room, and then mentally kicks himself because of course Sherlock will see right through that. But Sherlock doesn’t turn him down. Instead, he says, “Yes, all right,” a catlike half-smile playing on his lips.

They get quite a look from the night clerk at the front desk as they drag the cutout across the lobby. By the time they get into the lift, John can’t suppress the laugh rising up in him.

“Well, this is one of the more ridiculous things I’ve done in a while,” he says, trying to stifle his giggles.

“It was your idea,” Sherlock replies, but in the mirrored door of the lift, John can see that he’s smiling.

They haul the toucan down the hall to Sherlock’s room and John supports it while Sherlock digs out his keycard and unlocks the door.

“All right, where do you want it?” John asks as he leads the way into the darkened room.

“Wherever you like,” Sherlock says, and only then does John realize what he’s said.

Wait, did Sherlock really mean that? He wouldn’t be surprised if the other man had missed the subtext, but, God, what if he hadn’t? They fairly drop the toucan in the corner and John turns to face Sherlock.

In the dark, John can’t read Sherlock’s body language or expression at all. He knows he’s not drunk – he’s not even tipsy, he had one beer nearly two hours ago – but, good Lord, he feels drunk. His ears are buzzing and he feels strangely light-headed.

He’s so close to Sherlock – how did they get so close? Oh, holy hell, this is such a bad idea, but John’s fairly certain he’s gone temporarily insane, because he’s closing his hands around the lapels of Sherlock’s coat and pulling him down for a kiss.

Sherlock makes a soft noise at the back of his throat – surprise? desire? John has no idea – but he doesn’t stop it happening. Quite the opposite, in fact. Before John has time to react, he’s being crowded back against the window – it’s cold against his back even through the curtains, but he hardly notices, because Sherlock’s mouth tastes so fucking good, clean and brisk and just slightly of quinine, and he can’t help tangling his hands in those dark curls.

Sherlock’s hands are on him, sliding down to John’s arse and pressing their hips together and, oh, fuck, John hasn’t been imagining it, it wasn’t just him: Sherlock is ready for this, has been wanting this, too. He’s so hot, so close, grinding his hips against John’s so that there’s no mistaking his purpose.

“Oh, God, yes,” John gasps against that incredible mouth.

But the next moment, that mouth is gone, and Sherlock’s hands are easing off him. It’s so quiet in the room that John can hear his own ragged breathing. He hears Sherlock draw a cautious breath before he speaks.

“John,” he says slowly, and John can just make out the sharp edge of his cheekbone, backlit by the light from the still-open door. “While I’m flattered by your interest, I think it would be best if we kept our relationship strictly professional.”

Wait, what? Where did that come from? One minute, he’s writhing like he’s fit to fuck John straight through his clothes, and how it’s just business?

“It would be . . . safer for everyone concerned, I think,” Sherlock adds.

_Safer_? What the hell is that supposed to mean?

Oh. In other words, better they don’t get tangled up with one another, because there’s still a very real chance Sherlock will be sacking him soon. Right. John clears his throat, smoothes down the front of his shirt, then clears his throat again. When he’s fairly certain he’ll be able to speak without his voice breaking, he says, “No, you’re right. Definitely. Professional. That’s . . .” He swallows. “I’ll just . . . go.”

He pushes Sherlock away from him and hurries from the room, holding his breath while he jams the button for the lift and swearing silently as he waits for it to arrive, telling himself over and over not to look back to see if Sherlock’s door is still open, not to think about how every inch of his body is still thrumming from Sherlock’s touch. 

Once he’s safe inside the lift, he slumps against the wall and groans, covering his face with his hands. What’s wrong with him? No, really, what was he thinking? But he knows what he was thinking. He wasn’t thinking. Sherlock is gorgeous and John is lonely and he just stopped thinking and now he’s going to pay for it.

This is going to be awkward as hell tomorrow.


	7. Chapter 7

John wakes up on Friday morning from a night of the most intense dreams he can ever remember, all of them about Sherlock, that creamy skin and hot, restless mouth, Sherlock’s fingers sliding into him, or his into Sherlock, he’s not sure, some joining so seamless he couldn’t even tell where one of them ended and the other began. Obviously his brain trying to follow up on their abortive encounter of the night before, but, God, doesn’t his subconscious know that he has to look this man in the eye tomorrow without blushing? 

He’s dreading going in to work. Whatever anxiety he had last night about seeing Sherlock again this morning has multiplied tenfold, and he seriously considers calling in sick, but that seems like the coward’s way out. He can do this. It’s not like he’s never had an awkward, regrettable sexual encounter before. He braces for the worst and reminds himself it doesn’t matter, anyway, because in a week or so, Sherlock will be gone again. Oh, hell, a week – he’s not going to make it a week. Why can’t he incur some debilitating injury when it would actually be convenient? 

No, no, he can do this. It’s going to be fine. This is what he tells himself all morning, in the shower, as he dresses and chokes down his breakfast, in the car in the inevitable morning traffic snarl.

If he thought the walk to the conference room yesterday had felt like a walk to the gallows, the trip from his car to his desk this morning is even worse – like one of those executions where they chop off your head but you keep on living for a little bit longer, watching everything go to shit.

Because the thing is, when he grabbed Sherlock and started snogging him last night, he hadn’t given a moment’s though to the office rumor mill. News spreads like wildfire around here, whether it’s true or not. And while he doesn’t really think Sherlock is the gossiping type, even the slightest breath of a scandal would be all over the place by lunchtime, and that is absolutely the last thing John needs. The flak he would catch would be bad enough – he shudders to think what the lot from the warehouse would say, for one – but that would be nothing compared to all the overly self-conscious speeches about how, really, everyone’s _completely fine_ with it, as if he needs their permission. Not to mention the inevitable well-meaning offers to set him up. No, there’s a reason he doesn’t talk about his personal life at work. 

So when he walks through the door at 9 AM sharp, he steels himself for the collective stares of all his coworkers bearing down on him.

But no one seems to notice anything amiss. It’s a morning just like any other. George is cursing out the coffee machine in the break room and Sarita is tuning her handheld wireless to her favorite soft rock classics station. Linda and Michaelson are already bickering across their desks. John never thought this sight would be such a relief.

John gets halfway through the morning without incident, and he’s almost managed to put his panic behind him – after all, Sherlock’s probably not going to say anything, and John’s sure as hell not about to mention it – when, some time just past ten o’clock, a long shadow falls across his desk. John looks up to see Sherlock standing over him and drops his stapler in shock, then proceeds to knock his head on the underside of his desk when he bends down to pick the stapler up. Damn it.

“Something I can do for you, Mr. Holmes?” he says, trying for composure even though he knows he’s well past any hope of playing it cool.

The small smile that flashes on Sherlock’s lips, quickly squashed, tells him that Sherlock knows it, too. “May I have a word?”

Fucking hell. “Er, yeah – I mean, of course.” Fuck, what had he been thinking last night?

“In private?” Sherlock prompts.

Fucking fuck. “Right.” John forces himself out of his chair and follows Sherlock into the conference room. Sherlock goes through the door ahead of him and John takes a moment to compose himself as he shuts the door, screwing up his courage and trying to figure out what on earth he’s going to say to smooth this over.

Only when he turns around and opens his mouth, Bill is sitting in the third chair.

Oh, Christ, it just keeps getting worse. Forget being grist for the rumor mill, now Sherlock’s gone and reported him for indecent conduct or something. God, this probably counts as sexual harassment. Sherlock wouldn’t sue, would he? He’d been so sure in the moment that Sherlock was interested, and he never would have acted on the impulse if he hadn’t at least thought Sherlock might return his feelings.

“So, I guess you’ve probably got an idea why you’re here,” Bill says and John’s blood runs cold. 

“I . . .” What can he even say? How can he tell Sherlock how sorry he is, how he would never do anything he knew Sherlock didn’t want?

“I’d like your help,” Sherlock says.

Wait, what?

His mouth must be hanging open, because Bill gives him an odd look. “Mr. Holmes has asked me if I’d be willing to lend you to him for a bit while he’s here. I thought he might’ve mentioned it to you last night.”

Sherlock’s expression is utterly unreadable. “I find myself in need of an assistant in this matter, and of all the employees I’ve seen, I think you would be . . . uniquely suited to my needs.”

Despite the lingering thread of panic still working through him, John feels his dick jump at Sherlock’s choice of words, and he has to clench his fists under the table to fight the feeling down. “Ah . . . An assistant?”

“He swears it wouldn’t be anything too strenuous,” Bill assures him blithely. “Just helping him go through files, explaining how things are run around here.”

“Your help would be indispensible,” Sherlock says mildly, and, good God, is he just fucking with John now?

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” he asks, shooting Bill a pleading look that he hopes against hope his boss will understand.

“I don’t have any problem with it,” Bill says, giving him a look back that obviously says he thinks John’s gone mad. “It won’t be for long. He’s only going to be here for a couple of weeks at the most.”

“I guess . . .”

Sherlock raises his eyebrows. “Problem?”

“Well, it’s just . . .” What can he possibly say to this? _Because I was snogging him last night_ , doesn’t seem like a very good answer, nor does, _Because I’ve been thinking about putting his cock in my mouth since the moment I met him_. “I’ve got rather a lot on at the moment,” he finishes weakly.

“Don’t worry about it,” Bill says, smiling like he’s being fucking helpful here. When this is all over, John’s going to kill him. “George can take care of anything that needs immediate doing while you’re busy, and everything else can wait.”

“That’s settled, then,” Sherlock says smoothly.

John tries to say, “Great,” but all that comes out is an inarticulate little choking sound that sounds like, “Gah.”

Bill gives him a quizzical little smile and stands up. “All right, then, I’ll leave you lads to it.” He claps John reassuringly on the shoulder on his way out and John prays for a hole to open up in the floor and swallow him.


	8. Chapter 8

Sitting across the table from Sherlock, it doesn’t escape John’s notice that this is exactly the position he’s been fantasizing about all week. But his current position is decidedly less sexy than it was in his head, what with the dull tension in his gut and the sweat cooling on his lower back.

He feels vaguely like he’s just run up several flights of stairs, and he’d like nothing more than to put his head between his knees and breathe deeply until all of this – the office, Sherlock Holmes, and his mad desire for the man – just fades away.

Unfortunately, that’s not going to happen. Sherlock’s made sure of that. He’s made sure that John will be in close contact with him every single day until the consultant leaves, thus assuring that his stupid infatuation won’t just dissipate the way it should.

What John can’t work out is what Sherlock is playing at here. Is he trying to punish John somehow for coming on to him? He doesn’t seem that vindictive, but, then, John doesn’t really know the man that well. Or is he trying to give them more opportunities to see one another? The thought’s tempting, but then why would he have turned John down the night before? And then there’s the third possibility: that Sherlock Holmes can simply shut off his feelings and do what needs to be done without the slightest twinge of sentiment, and somehow John finds that explanation far more unsettling than the other two options.

“So,” John says, when he finally finds his voice, “what is it you want me to do, exactly?”

Sherlock stands up and crosses the room, and for a delirious half-second, John thinks he’s coming towards him, but he walks right by and picks up a large stack of files from the floor. These he deposits on an empty spot on the table in front of John.

“You can start by checking these for transfers beginning with the code 007-201. Any transfers with that prefix, flag them in yellow.” He tosses John a pack of yellow adhesive tabs, which John catches by reflex alone.

And then, just like that, Sherlock forgets he’s there. He immerses himself in his own work, reading through piles of paperwork at a frankly intimidating speed. John decides that if Sherlock can put the business of last night behind him, then so can he, and digs into the work.

They pass the next couple hours in companionable silence, consulting with one another only occasionally to clarify some question or other. It’s actually quite comfortable. When John finishes with his first task, Sherlock gives him another to do. He doesn’t seem to mind – or even really notice – when John gets up to use the loo or stretch his legs. Sometimes Sherlock gets up himself, pacing or staring out the window, occasionally muttering quietly to himself. Once or twice, John glances up to find Sherlock looking at him, but the other man’s eyes always slide away quickly, and neither of them makes anything of it.

Around noon, John says, “I’m going to get something to eat. D’you want anything?”

“Mm, I think not,” Sherlock replies, checking his watch.

When John comes back a few minutes later with a fresh cup of tea and a bag of crisps from the machine, he thinks at first that the room is empty, but then he spots the tips of Sherlock’s shoes on the other side of the table.

He walks halfway around the table to find Sherlock stretched out on the floor, his eyes closed and fingers steepled in front of his lips.

“Are you—” He stops himself, thinking maybe the man’s asleep, but he can see Sherlock’s eyes moving rapidly behind his eyelids, his lips moving silently as he whispers to himself. “All right?”

“Hm?” Sherlock’s eyes snap open. “Oh, yes. Perfectly well.”

John can tell when he’s been dismissed, and so he settles back down to the task at hand.

A little while later, Sherlock exclaims, “Of course!” and shoots to his feet. In a flurry of movement, he rearranges several stacks of files, throwing some out of the way willy-nilly and tearing others apart in search of some particular slip or receipt. Having found what he’s looking for, he sticks several pieces of paper up on the whiteboard on the far wall of the conference room and then falls back into his chair, slipping into deep contemplation of the board. 

John spends a moment looking, too, but if there’s logic to it, it’s beyond him. There are a couple of packing slips, an invoice or two, some bank statements, but none of it seems to fit together into any discernable pattern. Glancing over at the consultant, looking as intense in reflection as he is in everything else, it occurs to John then that he might as well just go ahead and accept that Sherlock is simply not like other people.

It’s quitting time almost before John realizes the afternoon is out. He listens to everyone gathering up their things and saying their goodbyes, but, strangely, he isn’t the least bit anxious to be getting home. He isn’t even all that tired. He can’t pretend reviewing old paperwork is the most gripping work he’s ever done, but it’s definitely different, and, really, he can’t think of anywhere else he’d rather be.

Around six, he gets up and stretches out his shoulder, which always aches a bit when he’s been leaning on it too much. His eyes are dry from all the recycled air, and while he’s not really ready to stop working, he could use a break. Sherlock, too, is starting to get a bit restless.

“Fancy a curry?”

“What?” Sherlock looks up at him, frowning.

“Curry,” John says slowly, teasing. “It’s food. You eat it?”

Sherlock snorts. “I’m aware,” he says, but he’s smiling, just a little.

“Well?” John can feel his smile getting wider. It feels good to joke around with someone, even someone as intractable as Sherlock Holmes. “Do you want to get a takeaway? I’m pretty hungry, and I know for a fact you haven’t eaten all day.”

Sherlock checks his watch and for a moment seems to consider the issue.

“I know a very good Thai place,” he says coaxingly. “Spring rolls I’d kill a man for.”

“Yes, all right,” Sherlock says curtly, and John counts it as a victory.

John places the order – Sherlock says he doesn’t care what he eats, but John makes a guess, anyway, as he’s usually pretty good at ordering for people – and they keep working while they wait for the food to show up. It’s nice, really. He could get used to this.

Except he can’t, obviously, because in a few days’ time, Sherlock will be done with whatever it is he’s doing here and he’ll leave and John will be alone again and everything will be just the same as it was before. But by then John will have had some taste of what it might’ve been like if things had turned out differently for him, and he has the feeling that that it will be hard to forget.

John’s mobile buzzes a little while later and he goes downstairs to collect their order. When he gets back, with some plastic cutlery filched from the break room, there are a few more pieces of paper pinned to the dry wipe board, and Sherlock is standing there, examining them carefully.

For a moment, John is caught in the doorway, stuck on the sight of him. He’s gorgeous, of course, but it’s not just his obvious physical qualities. Sure, he’s Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome, right out of some international spy thriller, but it’s more than that. It’s Sherlock’s intensity that John finds most magnetic, the way he focuses _everything all at once_ on whatever it is he’s interested in. It makes John wish he knew how that felt, to be the sole object of someone’s unerring attention, to matter that much.

He’s got to stop thinking like that. Nothing’s going to happen. Sherlock’s made that perfectly clear. He shakes his head, puts the bag down on the table. “Food’s here,” he says, and Sherlock looks over at him, surprised, like he’d forgotten about John entirely in the short time he was gone.

_Of course_ , John thinks. He probably had.

Sherlock works more than he eats, but he does seem to appreciate the four bites he takes of his meal. John, for his part, is starving, and grateful for something to do that isn’t pining over Sherlock, and so he makes short work of all of his food and also a fair portion of Sherlock’s, as well.

When they’ve both had their fill and John has sunken in into the lethargy of a full stomach, he finally feels relaxed enough to ask the question he’s been itching to ask all day.

“So . . . What is it you’re actually doing here?”

“An independent review,” Sherlock answers, and John’s impressed at the way he manages to tell both the truth and a lie at once.

“I mean what you’re really doing here.” He’s careful to keep voice calm, his expression neutral. “This isn’t any ordinary audit.”

For a long moment, Sherlock just looks at him, and John thinks he might almost approve of whatever it is he sees in John’s face. “No, it isn’t.”

“So? What, then?”

Sherlock clasps his fingers in front of his lips, that prayer-like position John’s already come to understand means the other man is thinking hard. At last, he says, “For some time now, someone within this office has been embezzling funds. This money has turned up in the hands of a number of dangerous international criminal organizations, including drug traffickers and a smuggling ring. I’ve been asked by an . . . interested party to look into the matter.”

And this is what it feels like when the penny drops. “So you’re not a corporate downsizer.”

“Not quite.”

“So, what, then? Are you with the police? The government? Are you a spy?”

“Oh, no,” Sherlock says, a bit smugly, “I wasn’t lying when I said I’m an independent consultant, it’s just not the way they think.” He gestures to the empty office beyond the conference room door. “I have a particular skill set, and from time to time, I have occasion to apply my expertise to criminal cases.”

“And somebody asked you to investigate this embezzlement case.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows rise, mocking. “Yes, John, that’s very good.”

“That’s what you do for a living, investigate crimes on your own? Like a consulting detective?”

Sherlock blinks, apparently surprised. “I hadn’t thought of it that way, but, yes, I suppose it could be a livelihood, of sorts.”

Well, OK. How _did_ he think of it, then, John wonders. A hobby? God, he probably did. He can’t help grinning at the thought of Sherlock running headlong into danger just for the kick of it.

“So what more are you going to tell me about this case of yours? Am I allowed to know, or do you have to kill me?”

Sherlock snorts. “I wouldn’t dream of killing you, John. That would be terribly dull.”


	9. Chapter 9

They finally call it a night just past one in the morning, and John locks up the office and drives Sherlock back to his hotel. There’s a breathless moment – just a split-second – where John thinks Sherlock’s going to invite him up, but then the moment passes, and John is watching Sherlock’s dark coat swirl around his legs as he walks away from the car.

Honestly, John’s too intrigued by the case to be terribly bothered about striking out on the romantic front. When Sherlock showed up at reception on Tuesday morning, John’s biggest worry had been redundancy, and the most pressing question was what he was going to have for lunch. Now he’s working with a sexy detective to solve a bona fide embezzlement scheme. This is more excitement than John’s had, well, pretty much ever.

John feels sure Sherlock spends the entire weekend at the office, working away, and he half expects him to demand John come in and help. He actually finds himself hoping Sherlock will call. 

Late Saturday night, he gets a text from a number he doesn’t recognize, and for a moment his heart speeds up. But all it says is, _Are any products VAT exempt? SH._ John texts back the answer and waits, stomach in knots, to see if there’s anything further – and, damn it, he can’t help it if his imagination runs away with him, supplying countless scenarios in which Sherlock calls him back to the office and they pass the evening in a variety of decidedly unprofessional pursuits. But half an hour goes by, and then an hour, and John has to accept that Sherlock’s interest lies elsewhere. He’s tempted to text Sherlock again, ask if he wants help, but he doesn’t want to appear too pushy. He’ll take what he can get, frankly, every little bit.

Because he likes the work he’s doing for Sherlock, which is something he’s never really been able to say before in his professional life, and, what’s more, he enjoys Sherlock’s company. He thinks he can live with never getting another chance to act on his attraction to the other man, because just being around him, talking through problems with him – it’s thrilling. It’s probably a measure of just how sad his life is these days, but he’s actually having _fun_ for the first time since he can’t remember when.

And when Monday morning comes around, he finds himself looking forward to going into the office. The sight of his face in the mirror doesn’t depress the hell out of him, and when he puts on his suit, he even fancies he cuts a rather dashing figure. Well, all right, he’s not a patch on Sherlock, who wears a suit like he was born in one, but, still, he could do a lot worse. 

It’s spitting down rain outside, but not even a thunderstorm could dampen his mood today. He stops at the bakery down the road from his flat for a box of pastries for the office, because he’s looking forward to the day and he wants to spread that feeling around a bit. Once he’s settled the pink box of Danish in the passenger seat, he starts up the car and turns on the radio in the hopes of hearing some stupid pop song that’ll match his buoyant mood. He wouldn’t even object to hearing “Manic Monday” right about now.

But instead of music, he gets a news report from a harried-sounding reporter. “And now,” she says, “we return to our breaking report: Authorities have just confirmed a massive explosion at the downtown Holiday Inn Express at just before eight this morning. It is not yet known if the explosion is linked to any known terrorist organization.”

John’s arms go numb, and for a moment, he can’t think of anything at all. And then his mind is racing a mile a minute, but all he’s thinking is _Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock._

He has to force his fingers to turn over the key, to put the car in gear. He’s watching the traffic, but he’s not really paying attention, too busy willing Sherlock to be OK. It’s a wonder he makes it to the hotel at all.

There are police everywhere, and ambulances and fire trucks, although it looks like the worst of the fire’s already been put out. There’s shattered glass and drywall and tufts of pink insulation all over the car park, and it’s all John can do not leap out of the car and run across the pavement screaming Sherlock’s name.

He spots Sherlock almost as soon as he pulls up. The man stands out starkly from the crush of stunned hotel guests, though John imagines he’d stand out in any crowd. He’s sitting in an ambulance in front of the hotel, a hideous orange shock blanket around his shoulders, being fussed over by a paramedic while a fine haze of rain drifts down from the grey sky. As far as he can tell from looking, Sherlock seems unhurt, which is a good thing, but doesn’t actually do much to put John at ease.

John hangs back, watching Sherlock’s face – his expression is flat, blank, and it doesn’t waver once – until the paramedic moves away to see to someone else. Then, when Sherlock is alone, John gets out of the car and approaches him. His hands are shaking, slightly, and he clenches them to hide it.

“What happened?” he asks, and he means to stop there, but the words just keep pouring out. “Are you all right? I heard about it on the radio on the way into work, I came right away. You’re not hurt, are you? You look all right. I—” He stops, takes a deep breath, forces himself to back up. “Sherlock, what happened?”

“There was a gas leak in my hotel room, apparently.”

“Apparently?” John asks sharply.

“That’s the official explanation, yes.”

“But that’s not what you think.”

Sherlock is silent, staring out across the car park at the dispersing emergency response vehicles. There’s a smudge of ash on that impeccable cheekbone. He must have been close when the blast went off.

“You think someone did this on purpose,” John says.

“Impossible to say, I haven’t enough data.”

“But you must have some idea.” Sherlock glances away from him and a spike of pure fear goes through him. “Jesus, you do. You know they did.” 

He doesn’t even have to ask if this is the first warning Sherlock’s received, instantly certain that it’s not. He remembers Sherlock’s run-in with the forklift the other day, and can’t help wondering what else has happened that Sherlock hasn’t even bothered to mention.

“It’s a distinct possibility, yes.” The words are short, and at first John thinks Sherlock’s angry, but there’s something else in his expression, something that John reads as, _Don’t_ – a warning, a caution, what?

He doesn’t understand it, but he knows Sherlock well enough by now to trust his methods. “OK,” he says, forcing himself to be calm. “What do we do now?”

“Now?” Sherlock throws the orange blanket from his shoulders. “Now we work.”


	10. Chapter 10

Everyone seems to have heard what happened at the hotel by the time they get into the office. Sherlock waves off everyone’s concern and disappears into the conference room, leaving John to put Bill at ease.

“God, Head Office is going to kill me. I almost let their top consultant get blown up.”

“You couldn’t have known,” John says reasonably, but Bill still looks like he’s about to be sick. John does his best to talk Bill down, but he’s itching to get back into the conference room with Sherlock, and as soon as he possibly can, he peels off and makes for Sherlock’s headquarters.

The detective is standing in front of the whiteboard, frowning severely at the papers stuck there.

“Sherlock?”

“Someone’s been here.”

“Are you sure?” John looks around. Everything looks more or less as he remembers it. There are, he thinks, a few more papers pinned to the whiteboard, and a couple of stacks of files have been shifted, but John assumes those are the fruits of Sherlock’s labors over the weekend. “How?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock says, and John can tell that the mere fact that he can’t figure it out is grating on him. “But I’m sure of it. Someone’s been in here, and they’re not afraid if I know it . . .” He breathes deeply, scenting the air. “In fact, he wants me to know.”

“What?” Who would be mad enough to do that? He hardly knows Sherlock, but he sure as hell wouldn’t want to cross the man.

Before Sherlock can reply, his mobile starts buzzing, and he’s speaking sharply to someone on the other line. “No, of course not,” he bites out. “Fine, obviously.”

Sherlock falls silent, listening mutinously, and John watches, rapt, as a veritable storm crosses his features. “I’m quite aware, Mycroft,” he says at last. “And as much as I appreciate your _concern_ , I have more pressing matters at hand.” He hangs up abruptly and looks like he’s about a second away from throwing his phone against the wall.

“Friend of yours?” John ventures, trying to lighten the mood.

“I don’t have _friends_ , John,” Sherlock snaps. “There’s only the work.” 

The truth of this hits John squarely in his chest.

Whatever he is to Sherlock – assistant, errand boy, sometimes not-quite-make-out partner – he’s decidedly not his friend. They haven’t even known one another for a week and while Sherlock obviously deduced everything about him within minutes of meeting him, John realizes that he still knows virtually nothing about the detective. Nor has Sherlock seen fit to tell him anything – not about himself, not even about this case. Apparently John doesn’t rate high enough to get the whole story. And suddenly all that giddy excitement he felt this morning seems so hopelessly, pathetically stupid. This is just an interlude, of course it is. He’s known that from the beginning, but somehow he managed to convince himself that, just maybe, it could be something else. Sherlock showed up, this bright, trailing star, and for a moment John thought it was the sun, let himself be pulled out of orbit, but soon it’ll be gone, and everything will go back to the way it was before.

“Right,” John says shortly, swallowing down everything else he wants to say instead, because there’s no point saying any of it, anyway. “You said you wanted to work, so I guess we should get to it.”

The silence that falls between them today is nothing at all like it was before. Every time he moves, every time he so much as takes a breath, he can feel Sherlock’s attention bearing down on him and it makes him want to choke. He’s going to suffocate in this room, under that gaze. 

He’s so agitated that he can hardly get through the reading Sherlock’s given him. He keeps turning pages and then realizing that he hasn’t actually been looking at them, just staring blindly at the columns of numbers. Every second of every minute seems to move more slowly than the one before. He can hardly believe that the happy, whistling John Watson who stopped for Danish on the way to work this morning is the same man sitting in his seat now, about to crawl out of his skin.

Sherlock, too, is getting tense. He hardly sits down before he’s back on his feet, pacing and muttering to himself, and when he accidentally knocks over a carefully ordered stack of papers, he throws the whole pile from the desk with a growl that startles even John.

It only gets worse as the day wears on. Sherlock snaps at him on three separate occasions for sighing too heavily, and things finally come to a head when Sherlock throws up his hands and says, “If you’re going to think so loudly, you ought to do it somewhere else.”

“Fine,” John says, shoving back from the table. “I don’t even know what I’m meant to be doing here, anyway. I’m obviously no use to you, since you won’t trust me with anything more complicated than sorting files. I know I’m not your _friend_ , Sherlock, but you’re the one who said you wanted my help, and I think I deserve to know what the hell it is I’m supposed to be helping you _with_. I may not be as clever as you, but I’m at least smart enough to understand when I’m not being told the whole truth!”

Sherlock looks over at him, strangely stricken, but before he can open his mouth to speak, John’s up from his seat and out of the conference room, closing the door a little more forcefully than is strictly necessary. A couple of heads turn in his direction, but he ignores his coworkers’ curiosity and heads for the relative shelter of the break room. He focuses on the mechanical motions of making himself a cup of tea and tries not to think about what an utter dick Sherlock can be.

As angry as he is, though, he knows it’s not really Sherlock he’s angry at. If anything, he’s angry with himself for getting his hopes up, for thinking that maybe this time things could turn out differently. But this is how it always goes, always: he grasps desperately at something and, when he finally gets his hands on it, it explodes in his face. He should have known.

There’s also, he realizes, a vein of fear running under all his anger. He’s worried that Sherlock may come to physical harm, of course, that much is obvious, but beyond that is the very real knowledge that, sooner or later, one way or another, he’s going to lose Sherlock, and there’s absolutely nothing he can do about it.

“Everything going all right?”

John looks up to see Bill leaning in the doorway of the break room. His smile is genial, but John can hear the concern in his voice. He’s no doubt heard John’s little tirade at Sherlock, as his office shares a wall with the conference room, but Bill, bless him, has too much tact to bring it up directly.

“It’s fine,” he says, although honestly he has no idea if it’s fine or not. “Just stressed.”

Bill rubs his thumb over his eyebrow, the way he often does when he’s worried, but seems to decide that discretion is the better part of valor. “Well . . . Just let me know if there’s anything you need.”

“Thanks, Bill,” John says, and he means it. Right about now, a reminder of some plain, uncomplicated decency is exactly what John needs, and Bill has that in spades. Bill saw something in John when even John couldn’t see it, and unlike Sherlock, he’s never been disappointed in John for failing to live up impossible standards or neglecting to guess some inscrutable secret message. If what Bill has given him isn’t exactly what John had always hoped for, well, that doesn’t make his offer any less sincere. John has a good life here, all things considered, and he was, if not happy, then at least comfortable before Sherlock Holmes came along. That’s worth remembering.

While his tea brews, he stands in the doorway and watches everyone going about their work. The office outside the conference room seems almost like a different world. Out here, people may be worried about cutbacks and deadlines, but things are simple. There are no embezzlement schemes, no international crime syndicates, no explosions, no tempestuous, handsome detectives. In other words, it’s dull, and that is surprisingly welcome. John can feel the tension easing from his shoulders.

His tea made, John sits down at his desk and catches himself thinking of it as his ‘old desk,’ even though he’s only been away from his regular duties for two working days. He wasn’t wrong last Tuesday when he predicted that Sherlock’s appearance wouldn’t be boring. He just hadn’t anticipated quite how much of a rollercoaster it would be.

It’s only temporary, he reminds himself, and for the first time since Sherlock turned up, that’s a comforting thought. In a few days’ time, Sherlock will have solved this case and moved on to the next one, and everything will go back to the way it was before. Yes, he’ll lose this – whatever it is, this thing between him and Sherlock – but at least John will be free to lapse back into that safe, comfortable anonymous mediocrity that’s been working so well for him all this time. He was kidding himself if he thought he was cut out for anything more.

When he finally lets himself back into the conference room, John’s feeling much calmer. Everything’s going to be fine, he reassures himself. This whole thing with Sherlock will come and go, but he’ll be fine.


	11. Chapter 11

The second half of John’s Monday isn’t any less stressful than the first half – although there are considerably fewer explosions. Sherlock is still tense and agitated, pacing the room like a caged animal, but John resolves not to take it personally and just puts his head down and keeps working.

And really, he can’t fault Sherlock for getting a little wound up. After all, he was almost blown up this morning, and the embezzler is openly taunting him. John’s more than a little relieved that he’s not in Sherlock’s shoes, quite honestly, because if their roles were reversed, he would have already cracked from the pressure.

Not that Sherlock doesn’t seem on the verge of it. When the office finally begins to empty out, John decides it might be time for a change of location.

“What if you took some of this work home with you?” he suggests tentatively, watching Sherlock carefully to gauge his reaction.

“And where, exactly, would I go?” Sherlock asks. “In case you’ve forgotten, my hotel room isn’t available.” 

As if John could possibly forget. But instead of snapping back, he takes a deep breath and says, “I was rather thinking you could come back to mine.” Sherlock shoots him a sharp glance, and he hastens to add, “Just to work.” It’s the closest either of them has come to acknowledging what happened in Sherlock’s hotel room last Thursday night. “I’ve got a spare room and a lilo, even. It’s quiet, and you’d have more room to spread out.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow. “You’re selling this rather hard.”

“I’m not, I just . . .” He shrugs. “Like you said, you can’t go back to your hotel room, and you can’t very well stay here all night.” From the look on Sherlock’s face, he can see that this is exactly what he was planning to do. “It won’t do you any good to keep retreading the same steps over and over again,” he says gently. “You’ll just drive yourself up a wall. A change of scene might do you good.” What he doesn’t add is that, after the events of this morning, he’d feel much better if Sherlock stayed in shouting distance – not that he knows quite what he’d do if they got into trouble, but at least they’d be in it together.

Sherlock’s evaluative gaze hasn’t yet left John’s face. Those haze-blue eyes keep searching, searching, but they don’t ever seem to find what they’re looking for. “I suppose,” Sherlock says.

John smiles. “I’ll make risotto.”

And that’s exactly what he does. Sherlock packs up the most pertinent files into a couple of cardboard boxes, and pores over them on John’s sofa while John putters around in the kitchen, busying himself with the endless stirring that risotto requires. It’s strangely therapeutic, actually, sweating in the fragrant heat from the stove while Sherlock makes quiet contemplative noises in the next room. By the time dinner’s ready, John is feeling more relaxed than he has all day – hell, all week, probably.

They eat in the living room, plates balanced on their knees while they trade files back and forth, marking relevant portions with sticky notes and complaining about people’s terrible handwriting. It’s almost domestic, or as domestic as he can imagine Sherlock Holmes being.

It’s nice, this thing between them, whatever it is. It doesn’t have to come to anything, he decides, and it doesn’t have to matter that Sherlock will be leaving before too long. John’s just grateful to have someone to talk to, and a problem to solve that doesn’t have anything to do with restocking orders. He doesn’t have to kid himself that this is forever in order for it to be a great adventure.

Sherlock seems to have calmed down a bit, too, settling down onto John’s couch once he’s done eating and stretching out so that he’s taking up the whole length of it. It makes John flush pleasantly to see him spread out so comfortably, so proprietarily, over his things.

“Budge up,” John says when he returns from putting their dishes in the sink. He flicks the sole of one of Sherlock’s bare feet, and the man gives him an irate look over the top of an accordion folder. “Come on, move. I don’t have enough furniture for you to hog it all.”

This is true. Despite the fact that he’s been living here for almost five years, John’s hardly filled the place up. There’s only one other seat, a big plush armchair, but it’s all the way across the room and John really doesn’t feel like dragging it over.

Sherlock seems to see the reason in this and obligingly lifts his feet. 

“Thank you,” John says pointedly, and sits down with as much dignity as he can muster, picking up where he left off in his stack of papers.

A little while later, Sherlock’s feet manage to insinuate themselves into John’s lap, which is nice, actually – strangely intimate, but, then, he’s not very well going to complain, is he? And if his hand comes to rest on Sherlock’s ankle, if his thumb winds up stroking the sharp knob of bone there, well, he’s only human, after all.

An hour or more has passed when Sherlock says, “John, about what I said this morning . . .”

John stills his hand, licking his lips nervously. “You don’t have to—”

“Yes, I do.”

At that, he dares to glance over at Sherlock, who’s watching him very closely, the look on his face so intent that it sends shivers over John’s skin.

“I meant it when I said I don’t have friends. I’m not—accustomed to working with anyone else. I don’t, generally.”

John’s no detective, but he could have guessed that.

“I’m used to keeping my observations to myself. As I’ve said, most people don’t take kindly to them, and I find it’s usually more efficient if I don’t have to explain. I wasn’t withholding information from you because I don’t value your help. In fact, you’ve been indispensible to me the past few days.”

“What, because I’m so skilled with a sticky note?” he asks lightly, in part to cover up how his heart is suddenly hammering in his chest.

Sherlock is frowning at him, not upset, just curious, that same searching look in his eyes. After what feels to John like a very long time, he levers himself into a sitting position and sets the papers in his hand aside. Now that he’s upright, his knees bent, feet still in John’s lap, he seems very close, and John has to stop himself from getting his hopes up again. “You really don’t see it, do you?”

John can’t even begin to imagine what Sherlock is talking about. “See what?”

Instead of answering, Sherlock closes his fingers around John’s hand and John doesn’t quite know what’s happening any more. They’re very close, and they seem to be getting closer, although John’s fairly sure he hasn’t moved. And then Sherlock is looking him in the eye, his other hand on John’s cheek, and he has the most wonderfully serious look on his face, like he’s about to explain the laws of quantum physics.


	12. Chapter 12

And then, Sherlock is kissing him.

Sherlock’s mouth is supple and warm, and John holds himself perfectly still, trying to convince himself that, yes, this is really happening. Sherlock certainly seems intent on moving forward, working his hand into John’s hair and kissing him insistently, his lips in constant motion. 

How can John resist? He opens his mouth to the sure sweep of Sherlock’s tongue, giving in to the kiss, to the man he’s wanted since the first second he saw him. And, God, it’s every bit as good as he remembers from the last time, Sherlock’s touch self-assured, unerring. Only this time, it doesn’t stop.

Arms sliding down John’s back, Sherlock pulls him close, easing back against the sofa so that John’s caught between his thighs above him, their hips flush, their legs tangled together. And then he rolls his hips, one long, slow press, and John can’t help groaning. He can feel the heat of Sherlock’s body through his trousers and for a moment all he can think of is Sherlock’s cock, in his mouth, sliding across his cheek, fucking into him long and slow.

“John,” Sherlock says seriously, his fingers tugging at John’s tie. John rushes to his assistance, unbuttoning his shirt while Sherlock slides the tie from his neck and tosses it aside.

When John pulls his shirt off, Sherlock goes still beneath him, fingers skating lightly over the scar tissue on his left shoulder. It’s ugly, John knows, and other people he’s been with since the accident have been almost horrified by the sight of it, but Sherlock just seems curious, almost awed at the sight.

“Car accident,” he explains. Normally he doesn’t like to talk about it, but Sherlock already knows everything else about him. It’s only right that he should know this, too. “It was Christmas, my last year at university. We were driving home from some party. He was drunk, drifted into oncoming traffic. He died on impact, my mum on the way to hospital. My sister and I were better off because we were in the back seat, but obviously . . .” He gestures to his shoulder, shrugs.

Sherlock’s fingers continue to map the shape of the scar, and when John finally dares to glance at Sherlock’s face, his expression is mercifully free of pity. He seems, instead, to be thinking.

“How did I miss this?” he murmurs finally, and John laughs, because of course it’s his initial deduction Sherlock is thinking of. John loves him a little for it. “I noticed the injury, of course – that day in the warehouse, you were favoring your shoulder, but it never occurred to me that it had anything to do with your dropping out of school. Stupid, I should have realized.”

“It was a long time ago,” he says. “It hardly bothers me any more. But I was pretty messed up, physically and otherwise, for a long time. I was in no shape to go back to school, and then it turned out I couldn’t afford to, anyway. He owed a lot of money. I couldn’t go to medical school and pay off his debts at the same time, so I just . . . stopped thinking about it.”

Sherlock frowns, his fingers slipping down John’s arm to his wrist. “So then the watch?”

“Oh, it’s his, you were right about that. But I don’t wear it to remind me of him.” He smiles a little. “I wear it to remind myself that, no matter what happens, I don’t want to end up like him.”

“John . . .”

“It’s fine,” he says, and he means it. “I’m fine, really. Besides,” he adds brightly, “I can think of much better things to do than talk about my ordinary, little tale of woe.” And he tangles his fingers in Sherlock’s hair, pulling him close for a kiss.

Sherlock makes a low, satisfied noise against John’s mouth, one leg wrapping around his waist. They kiss like that for a while, just getting the feel for it again, but soon the slow roll of Sherlock’s hips is becoming more concerted, more goal-oriented, until Sherlock says, “Condoms, John,” his voice so dark and promising that John’s synapses spark. 

“Right.” He almost falls trying to untangle himself from Sherlock’s legs, and hurries into the bedroom in search of prophylactics.

“And lubricant,” Sherlock calls from the living room, like John’s likely to forget. 

As he ransacks the drawer of his bedside table, the terrible thought occurs to him that he might not have any condoms in the house. It’s been a while since he’s seen anyone on a regular basis, a pathetically long time, actually, and, God, it’s going to kill the mood if he has to drive across town buy condoms right now, but, damn it, he’s not letting this opportunity slip past him a second time. He’ll drive to bloody Aberdeen for condoms if it means he actually gets to sleep with Sherlock tonight.

And then he remembers, mercy of mercies, that he’s got one condom in his wallet – _break glass in case of emergency_ , he’d joked with Mike one night – and when he finally finds it tucked behind a crumpled receipt, he could almost kiss that little foil packet.

“What on earth is taking you so long?” 

John turns and almost drops his wallet at the sight of Sherlock standing stark naked in the doorway, his cock full and red against his white stomach.

John opens his mouth to explain, but nothing sensible comes out.

“I was getting bored,” Sherlock says, and, oh, no, that’s absolutely unacceptable.

“Can’t have that,” John replies, closing the distance between them. And then he’s sliding his palms down the smooth expanse of Sherlock’s back.

“Now,” Sherlock growls, and John couldn’t agree more.

It takes both of them entirely too long to get the rest of John’s clothes off, and then they’re tumbling onto the bed and John finally has Sherlock’s skin against his, and it feels so fucking good. Sherlock’s cock slots smoothly into the hollow of John’s hip and he exploits it shamelessly. The smell of him is incredible, clear and slightly tannic, and John could just rut like this until that gorgeous smell is all over his body, but Sherlock has other plans.

Reaching across John to the night stand, Sherlock pumps a dollop of hand cream into his palm, and for a moment John’s not sure which way he wants this to go, until he decides it doesn’t matter in the least as long as he gets more of Sherlock.

When Sherlock plucks John’s hand from where it rests on his hip and slowly, deliberately, slicks each of his fingers, John’s cock throbs. And when he guides John’s hand between his legs, he can’t stop the moan that rolls out of him. His muscles clenching greedily, Sherlock spread his legs further and sinks down until John’s up to his knuckle. He rocks slowly on John’s first finger before demanding another, which John heartily supplies.

Sherlock tears open the condom and rolls it onto John’s erection, his touch light and quick as he slicks him up. When John tries to sit up a bit, Sherlock pushes him back down with one flat hand to his chest, and then he’s rising up over him and sliding, oh, so, slow, onto John’s cock.

“Oh, Jesus.” It’s all John can do to watch Sherlock above him, bracing his hands on those lean, powerful thighs as Sherlock fucks himself on John’s cock. He’s never seen someone so in control, so focused, and all that incredible attention is fixed on _him_. Every clench of every muscle is carefully calculated to push them both further, to make them feel _more_ , and he’s never seen anything quite so beautiful in his life.

Never, that is, until Sherlock’s need begins to get the better of him and he loses his rhythm, his head falling back, arms shaking, his hips jerking indiscriminately as the sensation becomes too much. And when he sees that Sherlock is about to break, John reaches up and closes his fingers tight around Sherlock’s erection, eager to play a part in his undoing. Sherlock falls to pieces under John’s hands, his whole body seizing violently around John’s cock, and the word on his lips when he comes is, “ _John_.”

John holds him through it, caught tight in the clench of Sherlock’s muscles, and when the tremors stop, John flips their weight and lays Sherlock out flat on his back. The impact knocks a surprised breath from Sherlock’s lungs and when John looks down, he’s staring up at him with wide, dark eyes, stunned and still somehow longing. When John pushes back into him, Sherlock wraps his legs around John’s waist and lets out an inarticulate moan.

“John,” he sobs, and John loves it, how Sherlock is totally wrung out and still begging for more. And he gives it to him, fucks him as thoroughly as he knows how, because, God, he doesn’t want this to stop, either, not ever. 

He’s close now, so close, and he thrusts hard and fast into Sherlock’s willing heat as his climax builds. When the swell hits him, he leans in close and seals his mouth against Sherlock’s, muffling a shout on his tongue. Sherlock holds him there as he shakes, and even after.


	13. Chapter 13

“Where do you want me to start?”

They’ve separated only long enough for John to dispose of the condom and tidy them up a bit, after which he promptly collapsed back onto the bed.

“We’ve only just finished, Sherlock,” John teases, still a little breathless from the rather excellent sex they’ve just had. “I’m not sure I’m ready to start again just yet.”

“The case,” Sherlock says reprovingly, although John thinks he detects a touch of warmth in his voice. One of those long-fingered hands drifts along the bare skin of John’s side, tentative in its tenderness. “You were right to say that you deserve to have the full picture. So, where should I start?”

“Oh, er . . . I dunno.” If they’re going to talk about the case, he’d really rather not be completely naked. Where is his bloody shirt? Oh, yes, in the living room. But if he leans over, he can just reach his vest, which is still on the floor where Sherlock threw it, along with the rest of his clothes. He feels around for his pants, too, shimmying awkwardly back into them, and, there, that’s enough, he can talk sensibly now. “How about at the beginning?”

“Hm,” Sherlock says. For his part, he seems to have no similar compunction about his nudity, merely pulling the sheets over his lap. John doesn’t mind in the least, although he suspects it may get a bit distracting later on. “My contact—”

“Your contact? Was he the one on the phone this morning?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says shortly, annoyed at being interrupted. “He was concerned about the explosion at my hotel.”

John lets out a small, stunned laugh. “Imagine that.”

“None of that _matters_ ,” Sherlock snaps impatiently, and John gets the sense that he’s had this argument about the importance of his personal wellbeing before, probably many times. “All it means is that I’m getting close, and, anyway, Mycroft isn’t really worried, he just wants an opportunity to interfere.” 

“No, of course, why would he be worried about a silly little thing like an explosion?”

“Why should he, when there are so many more important things to worry about?”

It occurs to John that what Sherlock might need is not so much an assistant but a minder, but he raises his hands apologetically and says, “Fine, sorry, continue.”

“When Mycroft first brought this matter to my attention several months ago, I didn’t think it had any merit – the case seemed insignificant compared to some of the other projects I was engaged in at the time.” John trembles to think what those might be. “But the more I thought about it, the more I came to realize that this isn’t just some petty scam. The genius of it, though, is that it doesn’t seem that way at first.

“As I told you on Friday, someone’s been siphoning funds from your corporate office to a number of highly-placed international criminal organizations. The sums themselves aren’t exorbitant, but the fact is that this isn’t the first time this has happened. A similar case cropped up outside of Dublin a few years ago, and there’ve been several more since then, always fitting the same pattern: a small satellite branch of a larger corporation mysteriously loses a moderate amount of money over the course of several months. By the time the loss is noticed and an investigation launched, the guilty party is long gone and someone else takes the fall. The missing money inevitably turns up in the hands of smugglers or human traffickers, any organization known to engage in underhanded dealings significant enough to rate on an international scale. It’s a neat little scheme, really: hit small targets, never take enough to be noticed, and distribute the funds widely.”

“But why do it?” John asks. “It seems like a lot of work without much result.”

“It depends on what kind of result you care about,” Sherlock says. There’s a wry smile playing at the edges of his lips. “If our embezzler were interested in making his fortune, you’re right, it wouldn’t be worth it, but I don’t think that’s what he’s doing.”

“What, then?”

“For one thing, he’s demonstrating his skill at the long con, but more importantly, I think he’s greasing the wheels.”

“What, you mean like slipping a tenner in the doorman’s pocket?”

“Exactly,” he says, and John can see that Sherlock is pleased he’s keeping up. “Spreading around that kind of money means connections, influence. A little bit of cash can create a lot of good will and open any number of doors. He’ll have a lot of friends, should he want them later on down the line.”

“So . . . he’s establishing a network,” John says.

Sherlock nods. “I think that’s precisely what he’s doing. He’s biding his time, content to bet small for now because he knows his investments will play out in the long run.”

It is sort of genius, John thinks, in a moustache-twirling, I-have-a-secret-underwater-lair sort of way.

“The more I know about him,” Sherlock continues, “the more convinced I am that what we’re looking at is not simply a series of petty cons, but the rise of a criminal mastermind. He’s made a bold start, a very bold start, and in five or ten years’ time, there’s no telling what he might accomplish.” The look in Sherlock’s eye is slightly wild, his voice is almost admiring, like someone speaking of a promising musical prodigy.

John doesn’t quite know what to do with that strange adulation, and so instead he says, “OK, hang on, though, can we back up a second? You keep saying ‘he.’ Isn’t the embezzler just as likely to be a woman?”

“It could be, certainly.” Sherlock tips his head to one side. “Not statistically likely, but possible, at any rate – if it weren’t for the cologne.” 

“Cologne?”

“Yes, in the conference room this morning. Didn’t you smell it?”

John could honestly say that he hadn’t, although now that he thinks of it, he does remember Sherlock scenting the air. “OK, that’s fairly definitive.”

“More than that. It’s a scent someone in your office wears. I know I noticed it during the staff interviews, only I can’t place it. It’s too familiar, or more than one person wears it, I can’t pin it down.” He scowls, shaking his head. “He’s taunting me, standing in plain sight and waiting for me to notice him, to pick him out of the crowd.”

“Someone in accounts, maybe?” He thinks of the men in the accounts department, Raj and Allen and Oscar, trying to call to mind what kind of cologne they might wear, but nothing particular comes to mind.

“That’s the obvious first choice, but one doesn’t need to work on the financial side of things in order to get to that information. It could simply be someone who has access to the system.”

“OK, well . . . That could be anyone from IT? Or Molly, she has a master list of all the access codes and things in case someone gets locked out, but I hardly think she wears cologne.”

Sherlock nods absently, but then he looks up at John sharply. “No, she doesn’t, does she?”

“No . . . ?” John repeats dubiously. Surely he can’t think sweet, sunny Molly is a master criminal.

“Oh, why didn’t I see it!”

“See what?”

“Think, John!” Sherlock exclaims excitedly. “Molly doesn’t wear chypre musk, but she spends quite a lot of time with someone who does.”

For a moment, John doesn’t get it. And then he does. “Jim from IT?”

“It’s perfect,” Sherlock says, clapping his hands. “His position in IT gives him access to the system, and he can get whatever codes he needs from Molly if he asks nicely enough. She’s clearly so anxious to keep him that she wouldn’t mind bending a few rules. With a little bit of unwitting help, he can approve transfers, falsify shipping lots – whatever he wants.”

“Jim?” he says again, because it just seems so far fetched that the man who wastes his lunch breaks chatting to Molly at reception is an international criminal. But then he remembers the slow, almost predatory smile that’d appeared on Jim’s face the first time he met Sherlock, and suddenly it isn’t so hard to believe anymore. He remembers wondering at the time whether Jim was coming on to Sherlock, and it was a come-on of sorts: _Come and get me, catch me if you can_. He feels vaguely sick. “How do we prove it?”

Sherlock is already up and on his feet, dashing out of the room to collect his clothes. “There’s bound to be a record of his movements on his computer,” he calls from the living room. “He’s clever enough to know how to cover his tracks, but there’s always some trace left, if you know where to look.” He reappears in the bedroom doorway, already buckling his belt. “What are you waiting for, John?”

“You want to go now? It’s the middle of the night!”

“We’ve waited long enough,” he says, tugging on his socks. “The longer we wait, the more time he has to plan his escape. We’ve got to move now!”

John has to admit he has a point.


	14. Chapter 14

John’s always found the office a bit creepy when it’s empty. It’s something about the too-white light of the fluorescents, the way sounds are muffled even when the space is at its most cavernous. On the rare occasions that he works late, John can’t help feeling that, if he got into some kind of trouble here one night, no one would be able to hear him scream.

Sherlock, on the other hand, seems perfectly at ease, and it occurs to John that, for a man who can’t help noticing everything, being alone like this must be something of a relief. Sherlock uses the set of keys Bill gave him to let them into the first floor, and John leads the way over to the IT department and Jim’s desk.

While Sherlock drops down into Jim’s chair, John sets about looking through his desk drawers to see if he can turn up anything of use. Sitting there in close proximity to Jim’s workspace, John thinks he can detect a lingering hint of the man’s cologne, something deep and woody that he’s associated with Jim without even realizing.

“What time is it?” Sherlock asks.

“About half ten, why?” When John looks up, Sherlock has the flat of his hand on the side of Jim’s CPU.

“Hm, nothing,” he says, dropping his hand. He scans the surface of the desk. “What do you know about him?”

“About Jim?” John has to think. “Well . . .” He bites his lip. “Not much, actually. He’s Irish, obviously. In his mid-to-late twenties, I guess. He’s been dating Molly for a few months, tends to wear rather tight jeans.” Sherlock’s eyebrows shoot up. “He’s always bending over Molly’s desk,” John says in his defense. “I can’t help it if his arse is in my way.”

Sherlock snorts. “Is that all?”

John tries to think of anything else he knows about the man, some off-handed comment he might have made about his family or his hobbies or something, but he can’t think of anything. “Pretty much.”

“Mm, it fits.”

“Fits? With what?”

“Look at this desk.” Sherlock gestures to Jim’s work space. “What do you see?”

John looks. There’s a keyboard and a mouse, a day-by-day desk calendar, and a cup of pencils, all neatly sharpened. “Nothing?”

“Exactly. _Nothing._ Most office workers think of their desk as their home away from home. They’ll have arranged their things just exactly as they like them, put up family photos or knick-knacks, stashed some snacks in their desks. You keep a Yorkie bar in your supply drawer, for instance.” John doesn't even bother to ask how Sherlock knows. “But there’s nothing here.”

“So he’s not putting down roots, not planning to stay long?” John ventures.

“I’d go even further than that. It’s not just that he hasn’t made himself at home, he’s left no impression at all. There’s hardly any sign he even works here, no clutter, not a single clue as to who he is. The man’s a blank slate. He’s got no personality of his own, can’t define himself except in relation to something else.”

John finds this characterization more than a little chilling. “Poor Molly.”

“And it makes guessing his password all the more difficult. Although he’s hardly the sort to use his birthday or the name of his favorite football player.” 

With a heavy sigh, Sherlock subsides into thought and John goes back to searching the desk drawers.

For a long while, the only sound is the flick of Sherlock’s fingers on they keyboard and the soft shuffle of paper. It’s slow going for John, as he’s trying not to disturb anything, and Sherlock’s progress seems to be equally slow.

“He’s careful,” Sherlock replies when John asks him how it’s going. “I got through the first round of encryption, but he’s put in a second level. Clearly he’s been anticipating interference.”

John works his way through Jim’s desk, but, just as Sherlock said, there’s not a single scrap of personal information anywhere. Everything John finds is official company material – intra-office memos, training manuals, flyers. None of this tells him anything about Jim Moriarty, the man. John wonders if that’s even his real name.

John has run out of drawers to search by the time Sherlock finally crows in triumph, having cracked Jim’s second password. As soon as he’s in, he immerses himself fully in the flow of information, searching for that all-important fingerprint that will link Jim to the embezzlement. But the result is that John is left with nothing to do but spin in a chair while the light from the monitor plays across Sherlock’s face.

It’s nearly midnight when John catches himself dozing, and he forces himself up out of his chair, cracks his back, stretches his arms. Sherlock is still engrossed in the contents of Jim’s computer, and John has to say his name a couple of times to get his attention.

“I’m going to go stretch my legs, unless you need anything?”

“Mm,” Sherlock replies, his gaze never moving from the screen in front of him.

“D’you want some coffee? I think I’ll need some, if we’re going to be at this much longer.”

“Mm.”

John snorts. “Right, then. I’ll be back in a bit.”

John fully expects another noncommittal noise, but then Sherlock’s fingers close around his wrist, and John turns back to look at him. “Be careful,” he says, and it’s almost tender.

“I will,” John assures him, although he’s not entirely sure what he ought to be careful about, at this time of night. “Don’t worry.” 

And just like that, Sherlock’s attention is back on the task at hand. Typical.

Stretching his arms high over his head, John wanders out of the first floor office and down the hall to the toilets. He’s got his fingers on the doorknob when there’s a sound behind him and everything goes suddenly dark.

*

When John comes to, he’s got a throbbing headache and his nose is full of the smell of concrete and petrol. Oh, that can’t be good. To make matters worse, he discovers that he’s bound tightly to a chair. Shit, definitely not good.

“Oh, hi, there, John,” Jim drawls. 

John’s vision is blurry, probably from the blow to the back of his head, but he can make out Jim’s form looming over him. As things come further into focus, he realizes he’s in the warehouse, far in the back where the extra packing supplies are kept, the chair just past the end of what seems now like an impossibly long, dark aisle.

Jim is smiling at him, a smug, lazy grin that John wants very badly to wipe off his face. “So, who’s your friend, then?” 

John wonders how much time has passed. There are no windows in this part of the warehouse, so he can’t see if it’s still dark outside, and the wrist with his watch on it is held firmly behind his back. A knock like that to the head might have put him down for a while – which is good, actually, means enough time has probably gone by that Sherlock will have noticed he’s gone. Provided he’s even looked up from Jim’s computer, that is.

Until Sherlock turns up, John knows the best course of action is to keep calm and play for time. “He’s a corporate downsizer.”

Jim laughs, and the sound sends a chill straight up John’s spine. “Oh, sorry, silly me. I mean who is he _really_?”

It occurs to John that he should be afraid. He’s been tied to a chair by a madman and there’s no sign of imminent rescue. By all rights he should be panicking. But he’s not. He’s not exactly overjoyed to be in this position, but it’s actually strangely centering. He’s spent most of his life feeling totally rudderless, but right now he knows exactly what to do. “I don’t know what you mean.” He widens his eyes in some facsimile of surprise. “Head Office sent him down to decide who gets sacked.”

“Are you having fun playing dumb, John?” Jim asks, his smile stretching wide. “You’ve very good at it.”

“Seems like you’re pretty good at playacting, yourself,” John replies coolly. “Does Molly know you’ve been harboring a secret desire to tie me up?”

“What Miss Hooper doesn’t know would fill a book.” God, Jim’s smile really is ugly. How could he have failed to notice it all this time? Well, it’s just as Sherlock said: he’s made a game of hiding in plain sight. If John missed what a psychopath he is, so did everyone else in the office.

“You’ve enjoyed yourself, though, haven’t you?” John spits. “You’ve been laughing yourself sick at us all this whole time. You get off on fooling everyone.”

“What, like you’ve gotten off on playing his superhero sidekick?” Jim scoffs. “You’re not good enough to be his Robin, John. He’s too clever for you, much too clever.”

“Oh, is that what this is about? I’m not clever enough for him, but you are?” It’s John’s turn to smile widely. “Jealous, Jim?”

If Jim’s troubled by the taunt, he doesn’t show it. If anything, his nasty grin gets even bigger as he closes the distance between them, and for the first time, John sees that he’s got something in his hands. “Not jealous for long.”


	15. Chapter 15

The first touch of the stun gun shoots straight through to the bone. John doesn’t even bother fighting the shout that tears its way out of him. _Good_ , he thinks when his head has cleared enough to allow him to think, and wills Sherlock to hear him.

“I hope you know I take no pleasure in doing this, John,” Jim says. He’s tipping his head from one side to the other, observing. Then he stops himself, reconsiders. “Well, I mean, I don’t like doing it to you _myself_. I do love watching you squirm, though. Shall we try it again?”

It isn’t any more fun the second time. 

“That is just dy-na-mite!” Jim claps his hands, delighted.

_Come on_ , Sherlock, John thinks, his limbs still twitching against his restraints from the residual energy of the concentrated shock. _Where are you?_

“As fun as this is,” John gasps out, struggling to form the words around his clumsy tongue, “it isn’t going to stop me telling the authorities what I know.”

Jim’s shoulders slump in exaggerated disappointment. “Oh, John, you don’t really think this is about you, do you?” He lets out a put-upon sigh. “You’re just the dangling carrot, darling. I was getting so _bored_ waiting for your boyfriend to come find me. I’ve been expecting him for _ages_. When you turned up in the hallway, I just couldn’t resist. Finally, a gesture grand enough to get his attention.”

Jim steps back and he looks John over, admiring his handiwork with cruel, dark delight. “Do you think he’ll like his present? I went to so much trouble wrapping it for him.”

“I think you’re insane.”

“Well, _duh_ ,” Jim says, rolling his eyes. “And that’s what makes you so _boring_. No imagination at all, no sense of the possibilities in life. I don’t know how you think you’re going to hold Sherlock’s interest, with an attitude like that. You know what they say, variety is the spice of life!”

By variety, Jim seems to mean testing out the stun gun on different parts of John’s body, for differing lengths of time. At one point, John is fairly certain he’s tapping out a message in Morse code, but his brain is too scrambled to parse it. By the time he lets up, John’s throat is raw, his head reeling, and every inch of his skin feels like it’s on fire. He can’t seem to stop is limbs from jerking.

“Ugh,” Jim huffs, “there’s only so many ways I can hurt you before it all starts getting repetitive.” He tosses the stun gun aside and checks his watch. “I really didn’t think it would take him this long to work it out.”

“Sorry, am I late?”

And John’s never been so glad to hear anyone’s voice in his life. He lifts his head and can just make out Sherlock’s form at the end of the long aisle.

“All right, John?” Sherlock asks calmly, and John manages to grind out something that he hopes is reassuring.

“But enough about him!” Jim exclaims gaily. “Let’s talk about me!”

“Oh, yes,” Sherlock replies, “let’s. It’s very impressive work you’ve been doing. Amateur, but impressive.”

Jim’s expression darkens. “This is just the first step,” he says petulantly.

“So I assumed. Unfortunately, you won’t have a chance to step up your game.”

“Why, because you’re going to stop me?”

Sherlock narrows his eyes. “Yes.”

“Why would you want to do that?” It sounds as if he’s genuinely curious. “Wouldn’t it be more fun to wait and see what I’ve got in store?”

Sherlock makes an indifferent noise at the back of his throat. “Why read the whole book when the dust jacket bores me?”

At this, Jim looks perfectly livid. “Bored, are you? You’ve got no idea, dear, what I’m capable of. If you think embezzling is my great game, you’re sadly mistaken. You don’t even know the half of what I’ve done.” 

“I’m sure you’re very promising,” Sherlock replies blandly, and John realizes belated that Sherlock winding Jim up.

“Oh, I am.” Jim shakes his head, delighting in his own malice. “I’m going places, baby, my star is on the rise. The future’s so bright I gotta wear shades.”

“Oh, I’ve no doubt.”

John’s not sure when Sherlock got so close, but he and Jim are only a few feet away from one another. The stun gun is lying only a few feet away, on top of a pile of unused cardboard boxes. _Come on, Sherlock._ He wills the man to notice the gun, but Sherlock only has eyes for Jim, his attention locked on the other man.

John tries to marshal his limbs to strain against his bonds, trying to loosen them enough to slip free, but they’re plastic zip ties and John’s far too uncoordinated to budge them. In fact, they’re so tight that John’s not sure he has feeling in his hands anymore. It’s hard to tell the sensations apart, under the general screaming hurt from the electric shocks. But if he could just get free, get the stun gun, they’d have the upper hand . . .

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Sherlock give him a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of the head. Can that really be meant for him? Can Sherlock really have deduced what he’s trying to do? Of course he can, John chides himself; this is Sherlock.

So what, then? He’ll be damned if he’ll just sit tight and watch the two of them fight it out. Or maybe Sherlock means he’s got the police on their way. Surely once he figured out that John was missing, he would’ve called someone, alerted them to what was happening. Maybe he’s just biding his time until the reinforcements arrive.

Sherlock is still advancing slowly, barely creeping forward, and then with a cold shock John realizes that he’s not approaching Jim at all. He’s driving him, edging him into position so that he’ll be ready when Sherlock strikes. Oh, no, this isn’t good at all.

He tries to catch Sherlock’s eye so that he can warn him. He wants to shout out but he knows that would give the play away to Jim, and he doesn’t want to cost Sherlock the upper hand. But this can’t be the best idea Sherlock could come up with. It’s a terrible plan, beyond mad. He’s going to get himself killed.

And then he’s moving, launching himself not at Jim but past him, right at the shelving unit behind him, and tugging it down with all his might. John’s chair is right at the end of the aisle, the perfect position to watch the shelves and everything on them come crashing down on top of the two men. Cardboard boxes of copier paper burst open, sending reams of paper flying in the air, a curtain of blinding white.

“Sherlock!” he shouts. He struggles against his bonds, wrenches his arms so hard he can feel the plastic cutting into his skin. “Sherlock!”

Just then, the police burst into the warehouse.


	16. Chapter 16

John and Sherlock get side-by-side seats in the ambulance. 

“I told you it would be safer if you didn’t get involved,” Sherlock says mildly.

Despite the dull agony still jangling through his nerves, John can’t help grinning. “Maybe I like a little danger.” It’s something of a revelation. Any reasonable person would be swearing off Sherlock’s company forever – or at least swearing _at_ him for taking such an idiotic risk. But John, he’s coming to realize, is not entirely reasonable when it comes to Sherlock. 

All things considered, though, they’ve both gotten off lightly, John with some nasty burns and a few minor cuts, Sherlock with several bruises and a sprained wrist. They’re both mildly concussed, too, with matching his-and-his head injuries. The hospital staff want to keep them overnight to monitor their condition, but Sherlock waves them off, insisting he knows how to handle a simple concussion. The doctor frowns, but agrees to release them, under the condition that neither of them lets the other sleep for the next twenty-four hours. It occurs to John that this may not be very responsible, medically speaking, but he can’t blame the man for giving in – Sherlock’s a bit terrifying when he’s in a strop. And, anyway, John doesn’t think it will be much of a problem, as he has no intention of letting Sherlock out of his sight any time soon – possibly ever, some voice at the back of his head points out.

Bill turns up as they’re being discharged, wearing his coat over a pair of pajamas and looking exceedingly nervous. Once he’s been reassured that both John and Sherlock are more or less OK, his anxiety subsides somewhat, although not entirely because there’s still the matter of his maniac former IT tech on the loose. The more they explain about the situation, the whiter Bill’s face gets, and John realizes, through the lens of Bill’s horror, how truly insane this all must sound, but frankly he can’t be bothered to care. John is sure Bill’s imagining the reaming out he’s going to get from Head Office when they hear about this, but, gentleman that he is, all Bill says is that he’s glad they’re both all right.

Bill offers to give them a ride back to John’s flat, but Sherlock declines, his eyes fixed on the middle distance. John doesn’t understand why until he sees a tall man in an impeccable suit striding towards them down the corridor.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock says sullenly.

So this is Sherlock’s contact, the one who turned him on to this case. 

“I understand you let young Mr. Moriarty get away,” Mycroft says by way of greeting.

“For now.” Sherlock scowls at no one in particular, and John realizes that it bothers him – not just that they lost Jim specifically, but that there’s now one who got away. John has the feeling Sherlock doesn’t leave cases unsolved very often. He’s also sure that Sherlock isn’t just blowing smoke when he says that Jim’s escape is only temporary. He can’t say when or how, but he’s certain Jim Moriarty will come into Sherlock’s life again some day, and when he does, no doubt the results will be explosive.

“To be fair,” he puts in, “it wasn’t for lack of trying.”

And then suddenly Mycroft’s cool, steady gaze is fixed on him, and he feels rather like he’s being pinned under glass. “You must be John Watson. I’ve been hearing very interesting things about you, I must say.”

“Er . . . all good, I hope,” John replies lamely, because what on earth is he supposed to say to that?

“Quite,” Mycroft replies, and there’s an odd little quirk to his mouth, almost as if he has an unpleasant taste on his tongue, but the look in his eyes is one of amusement. Really, John has no idea what to make of it.

“Are you done checking up on me now, Mycroft?” Sherlock snaps. “Don’t you have a country somewhere to invade?”

Mycroft executes a very posh version of an eye roll and says, “I am at least satisfied you’ve come through this in one piece.” He looks Sherlock up and down, half despairing, half fond. “I do so worry about you, you know.”

“Good-bye, Mycroft.” Something about the pointed way he says it reminds John of a petulant teenager brushing off a parent’s concern, and as Mycroft departs, John fancies he sees a certain family resemblance between the two of them – their height, their hair, that same long, striding gait. The thought that Sherlock has an actual family, that there might be other people like him, is both slightly unbelievable and strangely wonderful. Somewhere out there, there are people who knew Sherlock as a boy, who have seen him grow up. John thinks he’d like to know more about that boy, about who Sherlock was. He’d like to know more about who Sherlock is now, for that matter. He’s only known Sherlock for eight days, after all – a week and a day. It’s almost hard to believe that a week ago, the man beside him was a complete stranger. There’s so much more he’d like to discover about him, so much more he’d like to do.

He wonders what will happen now that the case is over. Jim Moriarty may still be at large, but Sherlock’s time here, with John, is drawing to a close. And despite everything he’s told himself, all his assurances that it didn’t matter that it was only temporary, that he’d take what he could get, John finds himself wishing it didn’t have to end.

“So.” He glances up at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye. “What now?”

“Now we get a cab,” Sherlock says decisively. “We go back to your flat, where you’ll make breakfast, because you’re starving. And then . . . we’ll talk.”

This is exactly what they do. John is starving, as it happens. Apparently, being tortured really whets the appetite. He makes toast and eggs and coffee, the last of which he forces Sherlock to drink in copious quantities, because it won’t do to have him fall asleep and slip into a coma.

They sit together on the sofa, thighs just touching, and Sherlock drinks his coffee while John wolfs down his breakfast. Once he’s deposited his empty plate on the coffee table, though, John starts to get nervous. It seems like all of this could be over very soon, but he doesn’t know what to say or do to change that.

“You said you wanted to talk?” he asks, fidgeting with his empty coffee cup.

“Yes.” Sherlock takes the coffee cup from his hands and puts it down before turning to face John fully. “John, I . . .”

So this is it. Here comes the kiss off, the moment where Sherlock tells him, _This has been great, let’s stay friends._ John braces himself.

“I think you should resign.”

Well, that’s not at all what he was expecting. “Come again?”

“I think you should quit. Your talents are obviously wasted here, and I think you would be able to make much better uses of your time in London.”

“What, you mean, at Head Office?”

Sherlock frowns at him, as if he can’t understand why John is being so dense. “I mean with me.”

John wonders if this is the concussion talking. He’s certainly feeling a bit muddled at the moment. “Wait, what?”

“I think you should come to London with me. You asked me before if this work was my livelihood, and I think you’re right that it could be, with the proper attention to the particulars. You’ve proven yourself to be truly invaluable over the past several days and I think with your business sense and my deductive skills, we could do quite well for ourselves. Furthermore, I find I . . .” His mouth works silently for a moment as he struggles to find the words. “I don’t want to leave you.”

John can’t – he doesn’t – He’s acutely aware that his mouth is hanging open, but he can’t seem to shut it.

Sherlock glances over at him, and John’s not sure, but he looks almost nervous. “I have a reasonably spacious flat with more than enough room for a second tenant, or, if you preferred, we could look for larger accommodations. I’m sure between the two of us we could afford something quite nice – I know a woman, a former client of mine, I suppose you’d say, who owns some property in central London. I could see if she might be willing to do us a deal.”

And then, unaccountably, John is laughing. 

Sherlock tenses. “What?”

“No, it’s just – You’re selling this a little hard, aren’t you?”

Sherlock frowns at first. Then, recognizing John’s reference, offers a tentative smile, though his shoulders are still stiff. “I suppose I wanted to make a convincing case.”

John privately thinks Sherlock’s smile alone is convincing enough. But all the same . . . He bites his lip, reaches down and takes both of Sherlock’s lovely hands in his. “Sherlock, I . . . I don’t know if I can tell you how tempting I find that offer, but . . .”

The tension redoubles in Sherlock’s lean frame instantly. “It’s fine, forget it,” he says shortly, trying to draw his hands back.

“Sherlock, no. Just—No. Hear me out.”

Sherlock doesn’t relax, but he does sit still.

“I can think of nothing I’d like more than to move in with you and go into business with you and shag you senseless around the clock. But . . . I have a life here, and, no, it’s not exactly what I always dreamed of, but I can’t just chuck it all for someone I’ve known for eight days. I like you, a lot – if I’m being really honest, I don’t think I’ve ever liked anyone as much as I like you. But maybe we could just . . . take it slow for a while?”

If it’s possible, Sherlock’s shoulders draw even further in on themselves. “John, if this is about the danger I put you in, I’ll do better. I won’t—”

“Yes, you will,” John says, because he hasn’t known Sherlock very long, it’s true, but he knows he’s not going to stop rushing into danger on John’s account. “And I wouldn’t want it any other way.” He runs his hands over his face. “Honestly, it’s not about the risk – I mean, that was a bloody stupid thing you did back there, don’t get me wrong, but that’s not . . . I could do with a little bit recklessness in my life, I think.”

Sherlock looks up at him, perplexed, almost plaintive. “So what’s the problem?”

“There’s no _problem_ , I’m just saying I’d like to get to know one another a little better before we start living together.”

“I could tell you about myself,” Sherlock offers quickly. “I play the violin, sometimes I don’t talk for days on end—”

“No, Sherlock, that’s not the point,” he says, and he can’t help it, he’s laughing. “The point is that it’s _fun_ to get to know one another.”

Sherlock scowls, obviously not comprehending and frustrated by his incomprehension. “I don’t—”

“I don’t want to _know_ everything about you,” he says patiently, “I want to _learn_ everything about you. I want to go places with you, and talk to you about things, see what you’re like in different situations. I want to find out what you like to eat, buy you presents you hate, get into arguments, make up. I— Jesus, I want to watch the bloody sunrise with you.”

“Oh,” Sherlock says quietly.

“Is that . . . Does that sound OK to you?”

“I’d, ah . . .” He nods. “I’d like that.”

“Good,” John says, pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s temple and then another one, gentler, to the bow of his lips. 

They sit like that for a long time, kissing quietly, sharing their breath. They’re both too tired and aching to do anything more, but John doesn’t care, because this is perfect just as it is. And since they’re both under doctor’s orders not to sleep, they watch the sun rise.


	17. Chapter 17

Sherlock doesn’t stop nagging him about moving in. They have the argument frequently, almost like clockwork. And it’s difficult for John to fight it – not just because Sherlock is a holy terror, but because John can’t say that he’s not tempted. He keeps reminding Sherlock that, by most people’s standards, he and Sherlock are practically strangers, and that no rational person would chuck their entire career and their hometown and all of their (OK, well, all of their _few_ ) friends for someone they hardly know. Sherlock finds this line of reasoning tedious, but John is adamant.

Because he knows he has a history of letting things implode – work situations, relationships, even his own feelings, which he pushes down until they rise up to suffocate him – and he wants this thing with Sherlock to work. If that means taking it slow, well, he knows enough to understand that the best things are worth waiting for.

So they compromise. John keeps his job and his flat, and on the weekends, he takes the train into London. John’s never done the whole long-distance relationship thing before, but even by John’s relatively flexible standards, theirs is far from normal.

One weekend, he and Sherlock go chasing after a serial murderer and almost drown in the Thames and then Sherlock takes him home and fucks him until he can’t control his nerve endings anymore. It’s hands-down the best two days of John’s life.

Sherlock introduces him to his new contact on the police force, a good-natured man named Lestrade, recently promoted from Detective Sergeant and already greying handsomely at the temples, a condition John feels certain Sherlock will only exacerbate.

John’s thinking about finishing up the last few credits he needs for his degree, even considering applying to medical school. He’s not that old, after all – plenty of people take a few years off between college and graduate school – and Sherlock likes the idea of having a proper doctor helping him out on cases. John likes it, too.

It takes everyone at the office about six seconds to discover that John’s currently seeing the independent consultant who, _oh, haven’t you heard, is really a private detective!_ All the overbearing motherly types keep asking how “his detective” is doing and John threatens to move to London just so that people will stop taking liberties with his personal life. Sherlock seems to find John’s discomfiture hilarious, and fuels the gossip by sending disgustingly extravagant flower arrangements – not because he’s sentimental, but because he takes an indecent amount of pleasure in how much workplace displays of affection annoy John.

The fact that they now share a bed doesn’t stop Sherlock being insufferably superior sometimes, or lashing out cruelly when John is grating on his nerves. Sometimes – usually after Sherlock has been exceptionally callous at one moment or another – John starts to feel things are getting too serious too fast and he panics and invents a reason why he shouldn’t come into the city for the weekend, but Sherlock always sees right through it and talks him down. He can be imminently reasonable when he wants to be, and, on the rare occasions when logic fails, John finds his lips and tongue extremely convincing.

They learn things about one another. John discovers that Sherlock loves Bach and trashy TV, that he’s trying to kick a smoking habit. He’s stunned to find out about the drugs, and for a while he’s sure that will be the deal breaker, because he’s known enough addicts in his time, but Sherlock swears that all of that is in his past, and John believes him. For his part, Sherlock isn’t terribly surprised by anything he learns about John, not his temper or his troubled relationship with his sister or anything else. In fact, Sherlock seems to delight in every little detail he can glean about John, good or bad, and, really, John understands why. Because even the worst things he learns about Sherlock mean there’s _more Sherlock_ , and that could never be a bad thing.

John savors his time in London: the noise and chaos of the city, the thrill of pursuing a suspect and the aching pleasure of Sherlock’s mouth against his, the quiet Sunday mornings spent reading the paper on the sofa while Sherlock works on some kind of inscrutable experiment in the kitchen. It’s never enough and he always leaves wanting more.

When John’s not in London, Sherlock calls him frequently to ask his advice on cases. He never feels he’s much help, but Sherlock assures him that he is. And when Sherlock’s not on a case, they try having phone sex, but Sherlock is disastrously bad at it – which is strange, as John would’ve expected the man who has an opinion about everything to be good at vocalizing his desire. But Sherlock says he gets bored if John’s not there in front of him, and, as John finds this rather flattering, he forgives Sherlock when his mind wanders. They have better luck with video chat, and, as if to make up for his phone sex inadequacies, Sherlock perfects the art of the scorchingly inappropriate mid-work-day text message. 

But truth be told, they’re spending less and less time apart. John finds himself delaying his departures more every time – leaving later and later on Sunday night, until finally he’s leaving Monday morning and slinking into work straight from the train station in the same clothes he wore the day before. Sometimes Sherlock even comes up on Friday and they grab a drink at the King’s Arms with Bill before going home to have a quick fuck and catch the last train into London. John’s possessions – his hairbrush, pairs of socks, his second-favorite jumper – seem to be migrating to Sherlock’s flat, and he finds he doesn’t mind in the least. He likes seeing his toothbrush in the cup on Sherlock’s sink, his brand of tea in the pantry. Hell, he likes how he’s learning to distinguish expired takeaway from ongoing experiments in the chaos of Sherlock’s fridge.

Sherlock starts emailing him listings from letting agents. He even pulls some strings with a contact he has at Barts Hospital who seems to think he could get John admitted for the fall, provided he can get his last few undergraduate credits sorted by then.

But in the end, none of that is what clinches it for John. It’s not even the lovely little flat in Westminster, right near Regent’s Park, that Sherlock shows him one sunny afternoon.

In the end, what makes John’s mind up is the giddy feeling he gets in the pit of his stomach as his train pulls into the station on Friday evenings. It’s the fact that the weekends he spends with Sherlock are the fullest, most exciting – sometimes the most insane – part of every week. And it’s the fact that, whether they’re chasing down criminals or just sitting around having a quiet night in, when he’s with Sherlock, for the first time in a long time, he can see the future ahead of him, and it's one he wants more of.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[PODFIC] Eight Days a Week](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1689989) by [sevenpercent](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevenpercent/pseuds/sevenpercent)




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